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ARRIVAL 

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JIMPSON 


THE   ARRIVAL   OF  JIMPSON 


BY  RAtPH  HENRY  HARBOUR. 

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The  captain  was  holding  his  head. 


(Page  26.) 


THE 
ARRIVAL   OF  JIMPSON 

And   Other  Stories 
for  Boys  about  Boys 


BY 


RALPH    HENRY   BARBOUR 

AUTHOR  OF  BEHIND  THE  LINE,  WEATHERBY's  INNING 
ON  YOUR  MARK!  ETC. 


ILLUSTRATED 


New  York 

D.  Appleton  and  Company 
1904 


COPTBIGHT,   1904.  BT 

D.  APPLETON  AND  COMPANY 


Pitblishfd,  September,  1904 


UR13 


TO 
H.    D.    R. 

IN    MEMORY    OF    THE 
WINTER    OF    '98-'99 


The  following  stories  first  appeared 
in  St.  Nicholas,  The  Youth's  Com- 
panion, Pearson's  Magazine,  and  The 
Brown  Book.  To  the  editors  of  these 
periodicals  the  author's  thanks  are  due 
for  permission  to  republish  the  tales. 


CONTENTS 


PAGE 

THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON 1 

BARCLAY'S  BONFIRE 30 

MARTY  BROWN — MASCOT 42 

PARMELEE'S  "  SPREAD  " 75 

"No  HOLDING" 96 

CLASS  SPIRIT  .        ,:J 117 

THE  FATHER  OF  A  HERO 136 

THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2o 161 

A  PAIR  OF  POACHERS 185 

BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 209 

"  MITTENS  "                                                                                    .  234 


LIST  OF  ILLUSTRATIONS 


FACING 
PAGE 


The  captain  was  holding  his  head  .        .        .          Frontispiece 

Jimpson  felt  like  an  outcast,  and  looked  like  an  Indian       .  9 

There  was  one  kind  of  ball  that  Marty  knew  all  about         .  71 

"Duty!"  frothed  Morris 130 

Tom  moved  the  net  toward  the  prey 198 

Ned  trotted  over  the   plate  into  the  arms  of   "Big   Jim" 

Milford                                                  232 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON 


THE  DEPARTURE 

THE  rain  fell  in  a  steady,  remorseless  driz- 
zle upon  the  rain-coats  and  umbrellas  of  the 
throng  that  blocked  the  sidewalks  and  over- 
flowed on  to  the  car-tracks;  but  the  fires  of 
patriotism  were  unquenchable,  and  a  thou- 
sand voices  arose  to  the  leaden  sky  in  a  fierce 
clamor  of  intense  enthusiasm.  It  had  rained 
all  night.  The  streets  ran  water,  and  the 
spouts  emptied  their  tides  between  the  feet 
of  the  cheerers.  The  lumbering  cars,  their 
crimson  sides  glistening,  clanged  their  way 
carefully  through  the  crowds,  and  lent  a  dash 
of  color  to  the  scene.  The  back  of  Grays 
loomed  cheerless  and  bleak  through  the  driz- 
zle, and  beyond,  the  college  yard  lay  deserted. 
In  store  windows  the  placards  were  hidden 

Copyright,  1898,  by  THE  CENTURY  Co.    All  rights  reserved. 

1 


2  THE  ARRIVAL  OF    JIMPSON 

behind  the  blurred  and  misty  panes,  and  far- 
ther up  the  avenue,  the  tattered  red  flag  above 
Foster's  hung  limp  and  dripping. 

Under  the  leafless  elm,  the  barge,  filled 
to  overflowing  with  departing  heroes,  stood 
ready  for  its  start  to  Boston.  On  the  steps, 
bareheaded  and  umbrellaless,  stood  Benham, 
'95,  who,  with  outstretched  and  waving  arms, 
was  tempting  the  throng  into  ever  greater 
vocal  excesses. 

"  Now,  then,  fellows!  Three  times  three 
for  Meredith." 

"  'Rah,  'rah,  'rah!  'rah,  'rah,  'rah!  'rah, 
'rah,  'rah!  Meredith!  '  A  thousand  throats 
raised  the  cry;  umbrellas  clashed  wildly  in 
mid-air ;  the  crowd  surged  to  and  fro ;  horses 
curveted  nervously ;  and  the  rain  poured  down 
impartially  upon  the  reverend  senior  and  the 
clamorous  freshman. 

"  Fellows,  you're  not  half  cheering!  ': 
cried  the  relentless  Benham.  "  Now,  three 
long  Harvards,  three  times  three  and  three 
long  Harvards  for  the  team." 

"  Har-vard,  Har-vard,  Har-vard!  'Rah, 
'rah,  'rah!  'rah,  'rah,  'rah!  'rah,  'rah,  'rah! 
Har-vard,  Har-vard,  Har-vard!  Team!  " 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON  3 

Inside  the  coach  there  was  a  babel  of 
voices.  Members  of  the  eleven  leaned  out  and 
conversed  jerkily  with  friends  on  the  side- 
walk. Valises  and  suit-cases  were  piled  high 
in  the  aisle  and  held  in  the  owners'  laps.  The 
manager  was  checking  off  his  list. 

"  Cowper?  " 

"  Here." 

"  Turner?" 

"  AU  right." 

"  Truesdale?" 

"  Hey"?  Oh,  yes;  I'm  here."  The  man- 
ager folded  the  list.  Then  a  penciled  line  on 
the  margin  caught  his  eye. 

"  Who's  Jameson?    Jameson  here?  ': 

"  Should  be  Jimpson,"  corrected  the  man 
next  to  him;  and  a  low  voice  called  from  the 
far  end  of  the  barge : 

"  Here,  sir."  It  sounded  so  much  like  the 
response  of  a  schoolboy  to  the  teacher  that 
the  hearers  laughed  with  the  mirth  begot  of 
tight-stretched  nerves.  A  youth  wearing  a 
faded  brown  ulster,  who  was  between  Gates, 
the  big  center,  and  the  corner  of  the  coach, 
grew  painfully  red  in  the  face,  and  went  into 
retirement  behind  the  big  man's  shoulder. 


4  THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON 

"  Who  is  this  fellow  Jimpson?  "  queried 
a  man  in  a  yellow  mackintosh. 

"  Jimpson?  He's  a  freshie.  Trying  for 
right  half-back  all  fall.  I  suppose  Brattle 
took  him  along,  now  that  Ward's  given  up, 
to  substitute  Sills.  They  say  he's  an  A  1  run- 
ner, and  plucky.  He's  played  some  on  the 
second  eleven.  Taunton  told  me,  the  other 
day,  that  he  played  great  ball  at  Exeter,  last 
year." 

The  strident  strains  of  the  Washington 
Post  burst  out  on  the  air,  urging  the  cheerers 
to  even  greater  efforts.  They  were  cheering 
indiscriminately  now.  Trainer,  rubbers,  and 
coaches  had  received  their  shares  of  the  ova- 
tion. But  Benham,  '95,  with  his  coat  soaked 
through,  was  still  unsatisfied,  and  sought  for 
further  tests.  Two  professors,  half  hidden 
under  umbrellas,  had  emerged  from  the  yard, 
and  were  standing  at  a  little  distance,  watch- 
ing the  scene. 

"  Three  times  three  for  Professor  Dab- 
lee!  '  The  cheers  that  followed  were  mixed 
with  laughter,  and  the  two  professors  moved 
off,  but  not  until  the  identity  of  the  second 
had  been  revealed,  and  the  air  had  filled 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON  5 

with  the  refrain  of  "  'Rah,  'rah,  'rah! 
Pollock!  " 

"  They  look  as  though  they  ought  to  win; 
don't  you  think  so  $  "  asked  one  of  them. 

The  other  professor  frowned. 

11  Yes,  they  look  like  that;  every  eleven 
does.  You'd  think,  to  see  them  before  a 
game,  that  nothing  short  of  a  pile-driver  or 
dynamite  could  drive  them  an  inch.  And  a 
few  days  later  they  return,  heartbroken  and 
defeated." 

Across  the  square  floated  a  husky  bellow: 

"Now,  then,  fellows!  Once  more!  All 
together!  Three  times  three  for  Harvard!  ' 

The  band  played  wildly,  frenziedly,  out  of 
time  and  tune;  the  crowd  strained  its  tired 
throats  for  one  last  farewell  slogan;  the  men 
in  the  barge  waved  their  hands;  the  horses 
jumped  forward;  a  belated  riser  in  Holyoke 
threw  open  a  front  window,  and  drowsily 
yelled,  "  Shut  up";  and  the  Harvard  eleven 
sped  on  its  way  up  the  avenue,  and  soon  be- 
came a  blur  in  the  gray  vista. 

"  Say,  Bob,  you  forgot  to  cheer  Jimpson." 

The    wearied    youth    faced    his    accuser, 

struck  an  attitude  indicative  of  intense  de- 
2 


6  THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON 

spair,  and  then  joyfully  seized  the  oppor- 
tunity. 

' '  Fellows !  Fellows !  Hold  on !  Three 
times  three  for  Jim— Jim — who'd  you  say?  ' 

"  Jimpson,"  prompted  the  friend. 

"  Three  times  three  for  Jimpson!  Now, 
then,  all  together!  ' 

"  Say— who  is  Jimpson?  '  shouted  a 
dozen  voices  at  once. 

"  Don't  know.  Don't  care.  Three  times 
three  for  Jimpson!  ' 

And  so  that  youth,  had  he  but  known  it, 
received  a  cheer,  after  all.  But  he  didn't 
know  it— at  least,  not  until  long  afterward, 
when  cheers  meant  so  much  less  to  him. 

II 

A  LETTER 

NEW  HAVEN,  CONN.,  November  19. 
DEAR  MOTHER:  I  can  imagine  your  surprise  upon 
receiving  a  letter  from  this  place,  when  your  dutiful 
son  is  supposed  to  be  "  grinding  "  in  No.  30  College 
House,  Cambridge.  And  the  truth  is  that  the  dutiful 
son  is  surprised  himself.  Here  am  I,  with  some  thirty- 
five  other  chaps,  making  ready  for  the  big  football  game 
with  Yale  to-morrow.  Here  is  how  it  happened: 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIM  PS  ON  7 

Yesterday  morning,  Brattle — he's  our  captain — 
came  to  my  room,  routed  me  out  of  bed,  and  told  me  to 
report  to  the  coaches  for  morning  practise.  You  know, 
I've  been  trying  for  substitute  right  half-back.  Ward, 
the  regular,  sprained  his  knee  in  the  Dartmouth  game, 
and  a  few  days  ago  it  went  lame  again.  So  now  Sills 
has  Ward's  place,  and  I'm  to  substitute  Sills.  And  if 
he  gets  laid  out) — and  maybe  I  ought  to  hope  he  won't — 
I  go  in  and  play.  What  do  you  think  of  that?  Of 
course  Sills  may  last  the  entire  game;  but  they  say  he 
has  a  weak  back,  only  he  won't  own  up  to  it,  and  may 
have  to  give  up  after  the  first  half.  Gates  told  me  this 
on  the  train.  Gates  is  the  big  center,  and  weighs  196. 
He  is  very  kind,  and  we  chummed  all  the  way  from 
Boston.  I  didn't  know  any  of  the  fellows,  except  a  few 
by  sight — just  enough  to  nod  to,  you  know. 

We  left  Cambridge  in  a  driving  rain,  and  a  big  crowd 
stood  out  in  it  all,  and  cheered  the  eleven,  and  the  cap- 
tain, and  the  college,  and  everything  they  could  think  of. 
Every  fellow  on  the  first  and  second  elevens,  and  every 
"  sub  "  was  cheered — all  except  Mr.  Jimpson.  They 
didn't  know  of  his  existence!  But  I  didn't  feel  bad — 
not  very,  anyhow.  I  hope  the  rest  of  the  fellows  didn't 
notice  the  omission,  however.  But  I  made  up  my  mind 
that  if  I  get  half  a  show,  I'll  make  'em  cheer  Jimpson, 
too.  Just  let  me  get  on  the  field.  I  feel  to-night  as 
though  I  could  go  through  the  whole  Yale  team.  Per- 
haps if  I  get  out  there,  facing  a  big  Yale  man,  I  '11  not 
feel  so  strong. 

You  know,  you've  always  thought  I  was  big.    Well, 


8  THE  ARRIVAL  OF    JIMPSON 

to-day  I  overheard  a  fellow  asking  one  of  the  men, 
"  Who  is  that  little  chap  with  the  red  cheeks?  "  I'm 
a  midget  beside  most  of  the  other  fellows.  If  I  play  to- 
morrow, I'll  be  the  lightest  man  on  the  team,  with  the 
exception  of  Turner,  our  quarter-back,  who  weighs  158. 
I  beat  him  by  three  pounds. 

Such  a  hubbub  as  there  is  in  this  town  to-night! 
Everybody  seems  crazy  with  excitement.  Of  course  I 
haven't  the  slightest  idea  who  is  going  to  win,  but  to 
look  at  our  fellows,  you'd  think  they  would  have  things 
their  own  way.  I  haven 't  seen  any  of  the  Yale  players. 
We  practised  on  their  field  for  an  hour  or  so  this  after- 
noon, but  they  didn't  show  up.  There  was  a  big  crowd 
of  Yale  students  looking  on.  Of  course  every  fellow  of 
us  did  his  very  worst ;  but  the  spectators  didn  't  say  any- 
thing— just  looked  wise. 

Most  of  the  fellows  are  terribly  nervous  to-night. 
They  go  around  as  though  they  were  looking  for  some- 
thing, and  would  cry  if  they  didn't  find  it  soon.  And 
the  trainer  is  the  worst  of  all.  Brattle,  the  captain,  is 
fine,  though.  He  isn't  any  more  nervous  than  an  alli- 
gator, and  has  been  sitting  still  all  the  evening,  talking 
with  a  lot  of  the  old  graduates  about  the  game.  Once 
he  came  in  the  writing-room,  where  I'm  sitting,  and 
asked  what  I  was  doing.  When  I  told  him,  he  smiled, 
and  said  to  tell  you  that  if  anything  happened  he  'd  look 
after  my  remains  himself!  Maybe  he  thought  I  was 
nervous.  But  if  I  am,  I'm  not  the  only  one.  Gates  is 
writing  to  his  mother,  too,  at  the  other  table. 

Give  my  love  to  Will  and  Bess.     Tell  Will  to  send 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON  9 

my  old  skates  to  me.     I  shall  want  them.     There  is  fine 
skating  on  Fresh  Pond,  which,  by  the  way,  is  a  lake. 

We're  ordered  off  to  bed.  I  guess  some  of  us  won't 
sleep  very  well.  I  'm  rather  excited  myself,  but  I  guess 
I'm  tired  enough  to  sleep.  I'll  write  again  when  I  get 
back  to  college.  With  bushels  of  love  to  all, 

Yours  affectionately, 

TOM. 

Ill 

THE  "  ARRIVAL  " 

JIMPSON  sat  on  the  ground,  and  watched 
with  breathless  interest  two  charging,  tattered, 
writhing  lines  of  men.  Jimpson  felt  a  good 
deal  like  an  outcast,  and  looked  like  a  North 
American  Indian.  Only  legs  and  face  were 
visible ;  the  rest  of  Jimpson  was  enveloped  in 
a  big  gray  blanket  with  barbaric  red  borders. 
Some  two  dozen  counterparts  of  Jimpson  sat 
or  lay  near  by,  stretching  along  the  side-line 
in  front  of  the  Harvard  section  of  the  grand 
stand.  Behind  them  a  thousand  enthusiastic 
mortals  were  shouting  paeans  to  the  goddess 
of  victory,  and,  unless  that  lady  was  deaf,  she 
must  have  heard  the  paeans,  however  little  she 
approved  of  them.  The  most  popular  one 
was  sung  to  a  well-known  tune: 


10  THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIM  PS  ON 

"  As  we're  strolling  through  Fifth  Avenue 

With  an  independent  air, 

The  ladies  turn  and  stare, 

The  chappies  shout,  '  Ah,  there !  ' 

And  the  population  cries  aloud, 
'  Now,  aren't  they  just  the  swellest  crowd, 

The  men  that  broke  Old  Eli  at  New  Haven!  '  " 

And  a  mighty  response  swept  across  the 
field  from  where  a  bank  of  blue  rose  from  the 
green  of  the  field  to  the  lighter  blue  of  the 
sky.  It  was  a  martial  air,  with  a  prophecy 
of  victory : 

' '  Shout  aloud  the  battle-cry 

Of  Yale,  Yale,  Yale! 
Wave  her  standard  far  and  high 

For  Yale,  Yale,  Yale ! 
See  the  foe  retreat  before  us, 
Sons  of  Eli,  shout  the  chorus, 
.  Yale,  Yale,  Yale,  Yale,  Yale!  " 

Harvard  and  Yale  were  doing  battle  once 
more,  and  twenty  thousand  people  were  look- 
ing on.  The  score-board  announced:  Har- 
vard, 4;  Yale,  0.  Yale's  ball.  15  minutes  to 
play. 

The  story  of  twenty  minutes  of  the  first 
half  is  soon  told.  It  had  been  Yale's  kick- 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON  11 

off.  Haag  had  sent  the  ball  down  the  field 
to  Harvard's  20-yard  line,  and  Van  Brandt 
had  gathered  it  in  his  long  arms,  and,  with 
Meredith  ahead,  had  landed  it  back  in  the 
middle  of  the  field.  But  the  fourth  down 
gave  it  to  their  opponents  after  a  loss  of  two 
yards,  and  the  pigskin  went  down  again  to 
Harvard's  territory,  coming  to  a  stop  at  the 
white  line  that  marked  thirty-five  yards. 
Here  Harvard's  new  half-back  kick  had  been 
tried,  and  the  ball  went  high  in  air,  and 
the  field  went  after  it;  and  when  the  Yale 
full-back  got  his  hands  on  it,  he  was  content 
with  a  bare  five  yards,  and  it  was  Yale's  ball 
on  her  40-yard  line.  Then  happened  a  piece 
of  ill  luck  for  the  wearers  of  the  blue.  On 
the  second  down,  Kurtz  fumbled  the  pass,  the 
ball  rolled  toward  Yale's  goal,  and  Brattle 
broke  through  the  opposing  left  tackle  and 
fell  on  it. 

And  while  a  thunderous  roar  of  joy  floated 
across  the  field  from  the  followers  of  the 
Crimson,  the  teams  lined  up  on  Yale's  thirty 
yards.  Twice  Meredith  tried  to  go  through 
between  center  and  left  guard,  and  a  bare 
yard  was  the  reward.  Then  Van  Brandt  had 


12  THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON 

run  back  as  for  a  kick ;  the  ball  was  snapped, 
passed  to  Sills,  Harvard's  right  half-back, 
and,  with  it  safely  under  his  arm,  he  had 
skirted  the  Yale  left,  and  fallen  and  wriggled 
and  squirmed  across  the  goal-line  for  the  first 
touch-down. 

Then  ensued  five  minutes  of  bedlam,  and 
after  the  victorious  seats  had  settled  into  ex- 
cited complacency,  Van  Brandt  had  tried  for 
goal.  But  success  was  too  much  to  hope  for, 
and  the  two  teams  trotted  back  to  the  middle 
of  the  field,  with  the  score  4  to  0.  Then  had 
the  sons  of  Eli  shown  of  what  they  were  made, 
and  in  the  next  ten  minutes  the  ball  had  pro- 
gressed with  fatal  steadiness  from  the  center 
of  the  field  to  the  region  of  the  Crimson's 
twenty  yards.  And  now  it  was  Yale's  ball  on 
the  second  down,  and  the  silence  was  so  in- 
tense that  the  signal  was  heard  as  plainly  by 
the  watchers  at  the  far  end  of  the  field  as 
by  the  twenty-two  stern-faced  warriors  who 
faced  each  other  almost  under  the  shadow  of 
the  goal-posts. 

"  Twelve,  six,  twelve,  fifty-two!  " 
And  the  backs,  led  by  the  guards,  hurled 
their  weight  against  Harvard's  right  tackle; 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON  13 

and  when  the  ball  was  found,  Baker  held  it 
within  a  few  inches  of  the  10-yard  line. 

The  cheers  of  Yale  had  now  grown  con- 
tinuous; section  after  section  passed  the  slo- 
gan along.  The  stand  across  the  field  looked 
to  Jimpson  like  a  field  of  waving  blue  gen- 
tians. On  the  Harvard  seats  the  uproar  was 
less  intense,  and  seemed  a  trifle  forced;  and 
the  men  near  by  were  breathing  heavily,  and 
restively  creeping  down  the  line. 

Again  the  lines  were  formed.  Jimpson 
could  see  the  tall  form  of  the  gallant  Gates 
settle  down  into  a  hunchback,  toad-like  posi- 
tion to  receive  the  coming  onslaught.  Bill- 
ings, the  right  tackle,  was  evidently  expecting 
another  experience  like  the  last.  He  looked 
nervous,  and  Gates  turned  his  head  and  spoke 
to  him  under  cover  of  the  first  numbers  of 
the  signal. 

The  guards  were  back  of  the  line  again, 
and  their  elbows  almost  brushed  as  they  stood 
between  the  half-backs.  Silence  reigned. 
The  referee  skipped  nimbly  out  of  the  way. 

"  Seven,  seventeen,  eighty-one,  thirty!  ' 

Again  the  weakening  tackle  was  thrust 
aside,  and  although  the  Crimson  line  held 


14  THE  ARRIVAL  OF    JIMPSON 

better,  the  ball  was  three  yards  nearer  home 
when  the  whistle  blew,  and  Billings,  some- 
what dazed,  had  to  call  for  a  short  delay. 

"  First  down  again,"  muttered  a  brawny 
sub  at  Jimpson's  elbow.  "  Why  doesn't  he 
take  Billings  out?  " 

Again  the  signal  came.  Again  a  jumbled 
mass  of  arms  and  legs  for  a  moment  hid  the 
result.  Then  the  men  on  the  stand  overlook- 
ing the  goal-line  arose  en  masse,  and  a  mighty 
cheer  traveled  up  the  field,  growing  in  volume 
until  Jimpson  could  not  hear  his  own  groans 
nor  the  loud  groans  of  a  big  sub.  Back  of 
the  line,  and  almost  equidistant  of  the  posts, 
lay  the  Yale  full-back;  and  the  ball  was  held 
tightly  to  earth  between  outstretched  hands. 
The  prostrate  players  were  slowly  gaining 
their  feet;  but  Billings  and  Sills  lay  where 
they  had  fallen.  Then  Brattle  stepped  to- 
ward the  side  line,  holding  up  his  hand.  With 
a  leap  Jimpson  was  on  his  feet.  But  the  big 
chap  beside  him  had  already  pulled  off  his 
sweater,  and  now,  tossing  it  into  Jimpson's 
face,  he  sped  gleefully  toward  the  captain. 

Jimpson  sat  down  again  in  deep  disap- 
pointment; and  a  moment  later,  Billings, 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON  15 

supported  on  either  side,  limped  from  the 
gridiron,  amid  the  cheers  of  the  Harvard 
supporters.  Sills  was  on  his  feet  again,  and 
the  trainer  was  talking  to  him.  Jinipson 
could  see  the  plucky  fellow  shaking  his  head. 
Then,  after  a  moment  of  indecision,  the 
trainer  left  him,  the  whistle  sounded,  the 
Crimson  team  lined  up  back  of  the  line,  and 
Kurtz  was  poising  the  ball  for  a  try  at  goal. 
The  result  was  scarcely  in  doubt,  and  the  ball 
sailed  cleanly  between  the  posts,  a  good  two 
feet  above  the  cross-bar;  and  the  score-board 
said,  "  Harvard,  4;  Yale,  6  ";  and  there  were 
three  minutes  more  of  the  half. 

Back  went  the  ball  to  the  55-yard  line, 
and  loud  arose  the  cheers  of  the  triumphant 
friends  of  Yale.  Gates  kicked  off,  and  War- 
ner sent  the  ball  back  again,  with  a  gain  of 
ten  yards.  Sills  caught  it  and  ran,  but  was 
downed  well  inside  Harvard  territory,  and 
the  half  ended  with  the  ball  in  Yale's  hands. 
Jimpson  seized  his  blanket,  and  trotted  after 
the  eleven  to  the  quarters.  He  found  Gates 
stripping  for  a  rub-down. 

"  Well,  my  lad,"  panted  the  latter,  "  could 
you  discern  from  where  you  were  just  what 


16  THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON 

kind  of  a  cyclone  struck  us?  "    But  Jimpson 
was  too  much  interested  for  such  levity. 

"  Do  you  think  I'll  get  in  this  half, 
Gates  f  "  " 

"  Can't  say.  Take  a  look  at  Sills,  and 
judge  for  yourself." 

That  gentleman  was  having  his  lame  back 
rubbed  by  a  trainer,  but  he  appeared  to  Jimp- 
son  good  for  at  least  another  quarter  of  an 
hour. 

It  seemed  but  a  moment  after  they  had 
reached  the  rooms  that  the  word  of  "  Time's 
up,  fellows,"  was  passed,  and  renewed  cheer- 
ing from  without  indorsed  the  fact.  But  a 
moment  or  two  still  remained,  and  that  mo- 
ment belonged  to  Brattle.  He  stood  on  a 
bench  and  addressed  the  hearers  very  quietly : 

"  We're  going  to  kick,  this  half,  fellows. 
I  want  every  man  to  get  down  the  field  on 
the  instant,  without  stopping  to  hold.  I  don't 
think  they  can  keep  us  from  scoring  at  least 
once  more;  but  every  man  has  got  to  work. 
When  the  time  comes  to  put  the  ball  over  the 
line,  I  expect  it  to  go  over  with  a  rush.  Let 
every  man  play  the  best  game  he  knows,  but 
play  together.  Remember  that  lack  of  team- 


THEARRIVALOFJIMPSON  17 

work  has  often  defeated  us.  And  now,  fel- 
lows, three  times  three  for  Harvard!  ' 

And  what  a  yell  that  was !  Jimpson  went 
purple  in  the  face,  and  the  head  coach  cheered 
his  spectacles  off.  And  then  out  they  all  went 
on  a  trot,  big  Gates  doing  a  coltish  hand- 
spring in  mid-field,  to  the  great  delight  of  the 
Crimson's  wearers.  The  college  band  played; 
thirty  thousand  people  said  something  all  to- 
gether; and  then  the  great  quadrangle  was 
silent,  the  whistle  piped  merrily,  and  the  ball 
soared  into  air  again. 

Jimpson  took  up  his  position  on  the  side- 
line once  more,  and  watched  with  envious 
heart  the  lucky  players.  For  the  great,  over- 
whelming desire  of  Jimpson 's  soul  was  to  be 
out  there  on  the  torn  turf,  doing  great  deeds, 
and  being  trampled  under  foot.  He  watched 
the  redoubtable  Sills  as  a  cat  watches  a  mouse. 
Every  falter  of  that  player  brought  fresh 
hope  to  Jimpson.  He  would  have  liked  to 
rise  and  make  an  impassioned  speech  in  the 
interests  of  humanity,  protesting  against  al- 
lowing a  man  in  Sills 's  condition  to  remain  in 
the  game.  Jimpson 's  heart  revolted  at  the 
cruelty  of  it. 


18  THE  ARRIVAL  OFJIMPSON 

Some  such  idea  as  this  he  had  expressed 
to  Gates,  that  morning;  and  the  big  center 
had  giggled  in  deep  amusement;  in  fact,  he 
had  refused  to  recognize  the  disinterested 
character  of  Jimpson's  protest. 

"  Don't  you  think,"  Jimpson  had  pleaded, 
"  that  I  might  ask  Brattle  to  give  me  a  show 
in  the  second  half?  ' 

"  No,  I  don't,"  Gates  had  answered  blunt- 
ly. "  You're  an  unknown  quantity,  my  boy; 
as  the  Frenchies  say,  you  haven't  *  arrived.' 
For  a  player  who  hasn't  *  arrived  '  to  try  to 
give  the  captain  points  would  be  shocking  bad 
taste.  That's  how  it  is.  Sills  is  a  good  player. 
As  long  as  he  can  hold  his  head  up,  he'll  be 
allowed  to  play.  When  he's  laid  out,  Brattle 
will  give  you  a  show.  He  can't  help  himself; 
you're  the  only  chap  that  he  can  trust  in  the 
position.  And  look  here;  when  that  time 
comes,  just  you  remember  the  signals,  and 
keep  your  eyes  on  the  ball.  That's  all  you'll 
have  to  do.  Don't  take  your  eyes  off  the 
leather,  even  if  the  sky  falls!  " 

Jimpson  remembered  the  conversation, 
and  thought  ruefully  that  it  was  easy  enough 
for  a  fellow  who  has  everything  that  heart 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON  19 

can  desire  to  spout  good  advice  to  chaps  on 
the  side-lines.  Perhaps  if  Gates  were  in  his 
(Jimpson's)  place  he'd  not  be  any  too  patient 
himself.  The  score-board  said  fifteen  minutes 
to  play.  Sills  still  held  up  his  stubborn  head, 
and  Jimpson's  chances  grew  dimmer  and  dim- 
mer as  moments  sped. 

Harvard's  kicking  tactics  had  netted  her 
long  gains  time  and  again,  and  twice  had  she 
reached  Yale's  10-yard  line,  only  to  be  grimly 
held  and  hurled  back.  Yale,  on  the  other 
hand,  had  only  once  reached  scoring  distance 
of  their  opponent's  goal,  and  had  been  suc- 
cessfully held  for  downs.  Veterans  of  the 
game  declared  enthusiastically,  between  bets, 
that  it  was  "  the  snappiest  game  of  the 
decade!  "  and  supporters  of  Harvard  said 
among  themselves  that  it  was  beautifully  con- 
ducive to  heart-disease.  Perhaps  never  had 
the  two  colleges  turned  out  teams  so  evenly 
balanced  in  both  offense  and  defense.  The 
bets  had  become  "  one  to  two  that  Harvard 
doesn't  score  again. " 

Harvard's  quarter  had  given  place  to  a 
substitute,  and  her  left  guard  had  retired  in- 
jured. Yale  had  fared  no  better,  possibly 


20  THE  ARRIVAL  OF   JIMPSON 

worse,  since  her  crack  full-back  had  been 
forced  to  yield  to  a  somewhat  inferior  sub. 
And  now  the  hands  on  the  score-board  turned 
again,  and  only  ten  minutes  remained. 

The  ball  was  down  near  Harvard's  40- 
yard  line,  and  when  it  was  snapped  back, 
Sills  took  it  for  a  "  round-the-end  run." 
But  Yale's  big  left  half-back  was  waiting  for 
him,  and  the  two  went  to  earth  together  near 
the  side-line  and  almost  at  Jimpson's  feet. 
And  then  it  was  that  that  youth's  heart  did 
queer  feats  inside  him,  and  seemed  trying  to 
get  out.  For  Sills  lay  a  while  where  he  had 
fallen,  and  when  he  could  walk  the  doctor  had 
sent  him  from  the  field.  Brattle  beckoned  to 
Jimpson.  With  trembling  fingers  Jimpson 
struggled  with  his  sweater;  but  had  not  a 
neighbor  come  to  his  assistance,  he  would 
never  have  wriggled  out  of  it  before  the  game 
was  called. 

Brattle  met  him,  and,  laying  an  arm  over 
his  shoulder,  walked  him  a  few  paces  apart. 
Jimpson's  heart,  which  had  become  more  nor- 
mal in  action,  threatened  another  invasion 
of  his  throat,  and  he  wondered  if  everybody 
was  looking  on.  Then  he  stopped  speculat- 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON  21 

ing,  and  listened  to  what  the  captain  was 
saying. 

"  We've  only  eight  minutes  to  play.  The 
ball  has  got  to  go  over,  Jimpson.  I've  seen 
you  run,  and  I  believe  you  can  make  it  if  you 
try.  The  ball  is  yours  on  the  second  down. 
Try  the  right  end;  don't  be  afraid  of  swing- 
ing out  into  the  field.  Whatever  you  do,  don't 
let  go  of  the  ball.  If  Turner  puts  you  through 
the  line,  keep  your  head  down,  but  jump 
high.  Now,  go  in,  and  let's  see  what  you  can 
do."  He  gave  Jimpson  an  encouraging  slap 
on  the  back  that  almost  precipitated  that 
youth  into  the  quarter,  and  Jimpson  saw  the 
broad  backs  before  him  settling  down,  and 
heard  the  labored  breathing  of  the  men. 

"  Ninety-one,  twenty-eight,  seventy-three, 
sixty- four— six!  ' 

Jimpson  suddenly  found  himself  pushing 
the  left  half -back4  against  a  surging  wall  of 
tattered  blue.  Then  some  one  seized  him 
about  the  waist,  and  he  picked  himself  up 
from  the  ground  eight  feet  away  from  the 
scene  of  battle. 

"  That's  what  comes  of  being  so  small  and 
light,"  he  growled  to  himself,  as  he  trotted 


22  THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON 

back.  But  the  thirst  of  battle  was  in  Jimp- 
son's  soul,  and  he  marked  the  Yale  end  who 
had  treated  him  so  contemptuously. 

The  try  between  right  tackle  and  end  had 
netted  a  bare  yard,  and  Jimpson  tried  to  look 
self-possessed  while  his  back  was  running 
with  little  chills  and  his  throat  was  dry  as 
dust.  The  next  chance  was  his,  and  he  waited 
the  signal  anxiously,  to  learn  whether  the  pass 
was  direct  or  double.  The  other  half-back 
imperceptibly  dropped  back  a  foot.  The 
quarter  looked  around.  The  lines  swayed  and 
heaved. 

"  Twenty-seven,  sixty-three,  forty-five, 
seventy-two— five! ' 

Jimpson  leaped  forward;  the  left  half- 
back darted  across  him,  the  quarter  passed 
neatly,  and,  with  the  Harvard  left  end  beside 
him,  he  was  sweeping  down  to  the  right  and 
into  the  field.  The  Yale  end  went  down  be- 
fore the  mighty  Cowper ;  and  Jimpson,  sight- 
ing a  clear  space,  sped  through.  He  could 
feel  the  field  trailing  after  him,  and  could 
hear  the  sounds  of  the  falling  men.  Before 
him  in  the  distance,  a  little  to  the  left,  came 
the  Yale  full-back.  Almost  upon  him  was  the 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON  23 

Yale  left  half,  looking  big  and  ugly.  But, 
with  a  final  spurt,  Van  Brandt  ran  even,  and 
gave  the  shoulder  to  the  enemy;  and  as  they 
went  down  together,  Jimpson  leaped  free, 
and,  running  on,  knew  that  at  last  he  was  left 
to  shift  for  himself.  Of  the  foes  behind  he 
had  no  fear;  of  the  full-back  running  cau- 
tiously down  on  him  he  feared  everything. 
But  he  clutched  the  ball  tighter,  and  raced  on 
straight  as  an  arrow  toward  the  only  player 
between  him  and  the  goal  that  loomed  so  far 
down  the  field. 

He  heard  now  the  mighty  sound  of  voices 
cheering  him  on,  saw  without  looking  the 
crowded  stands  to  the  right;  and  then  some- 
thing whispered  of  danger  from  behind,  and, 
scarcely  daring  to  do  so,  lest  he  trip  and  fall, 
glanced  hurriedly  over  his  shoulder  into  the 
staring  eyes  of  a  runner.  And  now  he  could 
hear  the  other's  short,  labored  gasps.  Before 
him  but  a  scant  ten  yards  was  the  full-back. 
Jimpson  9s  mind  was  made  up  on  the  instant. 
Easing  his  pace  the  least  bit,  he  swung 
abruptly  to  the  left.  He  well  knew  the  risk 
he  ran,  but  he  judged  himself  capable  of  ma- 
king up  the  lost  ground.  As  he  had  thought, 


24  THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON 

the  pursuer  was  little  expecting  such  a  delib- 
erate divergence  from  the  course,  and,  as  a 
result,  he  overran,  and  then  turned  clumsily, 
striking  for  a  point  between  Jimpson  and  the 
left  goal-post.  The  full-back  had  noted  the 
change,  of  course,  on  the  instant,  and  was  now 
running  for  about  the  same  intersecting  point 
as  the  other.  The  three  runners  formed  a  tri- 

;% 

angle.  For  the  moment  the  pursuer  was  out 
of  reckoning,  and  Jimpson  could  give  all  his 
skill  to  eluding  the  full-back,  who  faced  him, 
ready  for  a  tackle. 

And  here  Jimpson 's  lighter  weight  stood 
him  in  good  stead.  Clutching  the  ball  tightly, 
he  made  a  feint  to  the  left,  and  then  flung 
himself  quickly  to  the  right.  As  he  did  so  he 
spun  around.  The  full-back's  hand  reached 
his  canvas  jacket,  slipped,  and  found  a  slight 
hold  upon  his  trousers ;  and  Jimpson,  scarcely 
recovered  from  his  turn,  fell  on  one  knee,  the 
full-back  also  falling  in  his  effort  to  hold.  At 
that  moment  the  pursuer  reached  the  spot, 
and  sprang  toward  Jimpson. 

The  shouts  had  ceased,  and  thirty  thou- 
sand persons  were  holding  their  breath.  The 
next  moment  a  shout  of  triumph  went  up,  and 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON  25 

Jimpson  was  speeding  on  toward  the  Yale 
goal.  For  as  the  last  man  had  thrown  him- 
self forward,  Jimpson  had  struggled  to  his 
feet,  the  full-back  following,  and  the  two  Yale 
men  had  crashed  together  with  a  shock  that 
left  the  full-back  prostrate  upon  the  turf. 
The  other  had  regained  himself  quickly,  and 
taken  up  the  pursuit;  but  Jimpson  was  al- 
ready almost  ten  yards  to  the  good,  and,  al- 
though his  breath  was  coming  in  short,  pain- 
ful gasps,  and  the  white  lines  seemed  rods 
apart,  the  goal  became  nearer  and  nearer. 
But  the  blue-stockinged  runner  was  not  done, 
and  the  cries  of  the  Crimson  well-wishers  were 
stilled  as  the  little  space  between  the  two  run- 
ners grew  perceptibly  less. 

Jimpson,  with  his  eyes  fixed  in  agony  upon 
the  last  white  line  under  the  goal-posts,  strug- 
gled on.  One  ankle  had  been  wrenched  in  his 
rapid  turn,  and  it  pained  frightfully  as  it  took 
the  ground.  He  could  hear  the  steps  of  the 
pursuing  foe  almost  at  his  heels,  and,  try  as 
he  might,  he  could  not  cover  the  ground  any 
faster.  His  brain  reeled,  and  he  thought  each 
moment  that  he  must  fall. 

But  the  thought  of  what  that  touch-down 


26  THE  ARRIVAL  OF    JIMPSON 

meant,  and  the  recollection  of  the  captain's 
words,  nerved  him  afresh.  The  goal-line  was 
plain  before  him  now;  ten  yards  only  re- 
mained. The  air  was  filled  with  cheers;  but 
to  Jimpson  everything  save  that  little  white 
line  and  the  sound  of  the  pounding  steps  be- 
hind him  was  obliterated. 

Success  seemed  assured,  when  a  touch  on 
his  shoulder  made  the  landscape  reel  before 
his  eyes.  It  was  not  a  clutch— just  fingers 
grasping  at  his  smooth  jacket,  unable  as  yet 
to  find  a  hold. 

The  last  white  line  but  one  passed  halt- 
ingly, slowly,  under  his  feet.  The  fingers 
traveled  upward,  and  suddenly  a  firm  grasp 
settled  upon  his  shoulder.  He  tried  to  swing 
free,  faltered,  stumbled,  recovered  himself 
with  a  last  supreme  effort,  and,  holding  the 
ball  at  arm's  length,  threw  himself  forward, 
face  down.  And  as  the  enemy  crashed  upon 
him,  Jimpson  tried  hard  to  gasp  "  Down!  r 
but  found  he  couldn't,  and  then— didn't  care 
at  all. 

When  he  came  to  he  found  a  crowd  of 
players  about  him.  Faces  almost  strange  to 
him  were  smiling,  and  the  captain  was  hold- 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON           27 

ing  his  head.  His  right  foot  pained  frantic- 
ally, and  the  doctor  and  rubbers  were  busy 
over  him. 

"  Was  it— was  it  over?  "  he  asked  weakly. 

"  Easy,  old  chap— with  an  inch  to  spare," 
replied  the  lips  above.  "  Listen!  " 

Jimpson  tried  to  raise  his  head,  but  it  felt 
so  funny  that  he  gave  up  the  effort.  But, 
despite  the  woolen  sweater  bunched  up  for  a 
pillow,  he  heard  a  deep  roar  that  sounded  like 
the  breakers  on  the  beach  at  home.  Then  he 
smiled,  and  fainted  once  more. 

But  the  score-board  had  changed  its  fig- 
ures again:  Harvard,  8;  Yale,  6.  Touch- 
down. Harvard's  ball.  3  minutes  to  play. 

And  the  deep,  exultant  roar  went  on, 
resolving  itself  into  "  H-a-r-vard!  H-a-r- 
vard!  " 

The  band  was  playing  Washington  Post. 
Harvard  Square  was  bright  under  a  lurid 
glow  of  red  fire.  Cheering  humanity  was 
packed  tight  from  the  street  to  the  balustrade 
of  Matthews,  and  from  there  up  and  across 
the  yard.  Cannon  crackers  punctuated  the 
blare  of  noise  with  sharp  detonations.  The 


28  THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON 

college  was  out  in  full  force  to  welcome 
home  the  football  heroes,  and  staid  and  prim 
old  Cambridge  lent  her  quota  to  the  throng. 
From  the  back  of  Grays  the  cheering  grew 
louder,  and  the  crowd  surged  toward  the  ave- 
nue. The  band  broke  ranks  and  skeltered 
after.  A  four-horse  barge  drew  up  slowly  at 
the  curb,  and,  one  after  another,  the  men 
dropped  out,  tightly  clutching  their  bags,  and 
strove  to  slip  away  through  the  throng.  But 
each  was  eventually  captured,  his  luggage 
confiscated,  and  himself  raised  to  the  shoul- 
ders of  riotous  admirers.  When  all  were  out 
and  up,  the  band  started  the  strains  of  Fair 
Harvard,  and  thousands  of  voices  joined  in. 
The  procession  moved.  Jimpson,  proud  and 
happy  and  somewhat  embarrassed,  was  well  up 
in  the  line.  When  the  corner  was  turned  and 
the  yard  reached  the  roar  increased  in  volume. 
Cheers  for  the  eleven,  for  Harvard,  for  Brat- 
tle, were  filling  the  air.  And  then  suddenly 
Jimpson 's  heart  leaped  at  the  sound  of  his 
own  name  from  thousands  of  throats. 

"  Now,  fellows,  three  long  Harvards,  and 
three  times  three  for  Jimpson!  '  In  the  roar 
that  followed  Jimpson  addressed  his  bearers. 


THE  ARRIVAL  OF  JIMPSON  29 

"  Won't  you  please  let  me  go  now?  I— 
I'm  not  feeling  very  well,  and— and  I'm  only 
a  sub,  you  know." 

The  plea  of  illness  moved  his  captors,  and 
Jimpson  was  dropped  to  earth,  and  his  valise 
restored.  There  was  no  notice  taken  of  him 
as  he  slipped  stealthf  ully  through  the  outskirts 
of  the  throng,  and  as  he  reached  the  corner 
of  Holden  Chapel  he  paused  and  listened. 

To  the  dark  heavens  arose  a  prolonged,  im- 
patient demand  from  thousands  of  Harvard 
throats.  The  listener  heard,  and  then  fled 
toward  the  dark  building  across  the  street, 
and,  reaching  his  room,  locked  the  door  be- 
hind him.  But  still  he  could  hear  the  cries, 
loudly  and  impatiently  repeated:  "  We— 
want  —  Jimp-son !  We  —  want  —  Jimp-son  1 
Jimp-son!  " 


BARCLAY'S  BONFIRE 

COBB,  1901,  assistant  editor  of  the  Daily 
Quarmazi,  left  the  office,  crossed  the  road  and 
entered  the  college  yard  by  the  simple  ex- 
pedient of  placing  one  hand  on  the  fence  and 
vaulting  over  upon  the  forbidden  grass.  Cobb 
had  a  Latin  book  under  one  arm— for  even  if 
one  labors  on  a  college  paper  to  mold  under- 
graduate opinion,  he  is  not  exempt  from  a 
certain  amount  of  class  attendance— and  car- 
ried an  open  letter  in  his  hand.  His  round, 
good-natured  face  wore  a  broad  grin;  and 
whenever  he  looked  at  the  letter  the  grin 
increased. 

He  entered  the  first  entrance  to  Grays 
Hall,  bounded  up  two  flights  of  narrow  stair- 
way, and  pounded  at  a  door.  An  invitation 
to  enter  came  faintly  through  two  thicknesses 
of  oak,  and  Cobb  confronted  the  single  occu- 
pant of  the  room. 

Copyright,  1898,  by  THE  YOUTH'S  COMPANION.    All  rights  reserved. 
30 


BARCLAY'S    BONFIRE  31 

"  How  are  you,  Barclay?  Thanks,  no, 
can't  stop!  Just  dropped  'round  to  leave  this 
with  you.  Got  it  in  this  morning's  mail  at 
the  office.  Said  to  myself,  *  Just  one  man  in 
college  who'll  take  interest  in  this ;  that's  Bar- 
clay.' So  I  brought  it  to  you.  Might  answer 
it,  eh?  Good  idea,  seems  to  me.  Hope  you'll 
be  able  to  do  something  about  it.  'Bye!" 
And  Cobb,  grinning  like  a  jovial  satyr,  was 
gone. 

Barclay,  '99,  laid  his  pen  aside  with  slow 
deliberateness,  marked  his  place  in  the  big 
Greek  lexicon  beside  him,  and  took  up  the  let- 
ter. It  was  addressed  to  the  editor  of  the 
Quarmazi,  and  was  signed  "  Hiram  G.  Lar- 
kin,  Yale,  '99."  The  writer  asked  to  be  put 
in  communication  with  some  student  in  the 
rival  college  who  was  interested  in  checkers. 
He  dwelt  enthusiastically  on  the  formation  of 
a  dual  checker  league.  He  pointed  out  the 
fact  that  although  chess,  whist  and  other 
games  of  skill  and  science  were  recognized 
and  participated  in  each  year  by  teams  rep- 
resenting the  two  universities,  the  noble  game 
of  checkers  had  been  hitherto  wofully  neg- 
lected. He  suggested  that  teams  be  formed 


32  BARCLAY'S   BONFIRE 

at  each  university,  and  that  a  tournament  be 
played  to  decide  the  championship. 

When  Barclay  laid  aside  the  letter,  his 
long  and  ascetic  face  held  an  expression  of 
enthusiastic  delight.  The  one  dissipation  and 
hobby  of  Barclay's  studious  existence  was 
checkers.  He  held  a  college-wide  reputation 
as  a  "  grind  "  of  the  most  pronounced  type. 
Barclay  did  not  look  down  on  the  usual  pleas- 
ures and  frolics  of  the  undergraduate;  they 
simply  had  for  him  no  appeal.  He  had  noth- 
ing against  football  or  baseball  or  track  ath- 
letics; but  he  felt  no  enthusiasm  for  any  of 
them. 

Of  course  he  was  always  glad  when  the 
college  teams  won;  he  was  "  patriotic  "  to  a 
high  degree,  and  sometimes,  when  the  bon- 
fires burned  and  the  students  cheered  and 
sang,  he  acknowledged  a  wish,  lying  deep 
down  in  his  heart,  that  he,  too,  might  be 
able  to  derive  pleasurable  emotions  from 
such  celebrations.  Barclay,  in  short,  loved 
Xenophanes  and  Xenophon;  and  next  to 
them,  checkers. 

Before  he  went  to  bed  that  night  he  an- 
swered the  Yale  man's  letter;  indorsed  the 


BARCLAY'S   BONFIRE  33 

project  voluminously;  pledged  immediate  co- 
operation, and  remained  fraternally  his,  Si- 
monides  P.  Barclay. 

I  have  no  intention  of  specifying  in  detail 
the  steps  which  resulted  in  the  formation 
of  the  Intercollegiate  Checkers  Association. 
Barclay  and  Larkin  wrote  to  each  other  at 
least  every  other  day,  and  at  the  end  of  three 
weeks  the  matter  was  settled— not,  perhaps, 
just  as  they  had  hoped  for.  Barclay  had 
labored  heroically  to  find  a  membership  for 
the  Checkers  Club,  but  without  avail.  None 
wanted  to  join.  Many  scoffed,  and  instead  of 
enthusiasm,  he  awakened  only  ridicule.  And 
the  Yale  man  reported  like  results.  So  when 
the  rival  teams  met  in  a  private  room  in 
Young's  Hotel  one  December  day,  they  con- 
sisted of  just  Larkin,  Yale,  '99,  and  Barclay. 

The  tournament  was  held  behind  tightly 
closed  doors ;  consequently  I  am  unable  to  re- 
port the  play  for  the  reader's  benefit.  Enough 
that  deep  silence  and  undoubted  skill  held 
sway  until  dusk,  at  which  time  the  two  teams 
passed  into  the  dining-hall  and  ate  a  dinner, 
at  which  much  good  feeling  was  displayed  by 
both,  and  at  which  the  day's  play  was  re- 


34  BARCLAY'S    BONFIRE 

hearsed  scientifically,  from  oysters  to  coffee. 
The  teams  then  shook  hands  and  parted  at  the 
entrance. 

Barclay  boarded  a  car  and  returned  to 
college,  filled  with  overwhelming  triumph. 
He  had  won  three  out  of  the  seven  games  and 
drawn  two.  The  checkers  championship  rest- 
ed with  Harvard ! 

Such  a  spirit  of  jubilation  possessed  Bar- 
clay that  when  he  reached  his  unadorned 
room  and  had  changed  his  gold-rimmed 
glasses  for  his  reading  spectacles,  he  found 
that  Greek  for  once  did  not  satisfy.  He  tried 
light  reading  in  the  form  of  a  monograph  on 
the  origin  of  Greek  drama,  but  even  then  his 
attention  wandered  continually.  He  laid 
down  the  book,  wiped  his  glasses  thought- 
fully and  frowned  at  the  green  lamp-shade. 
Plainly  something  was  wrong ;  but  what  ?  He 
pondered  deeply  for  several  minutes.  Then 
his  brow  cleared,  and  he  settled  his  "  specs  " 
over  his  lean  nose  again;  he  had  found  the 
trouble. 

"  The  victory,''  said  Barclay,  soberly,  to 
the  lamp-shade,  "  demands  a  celebration!  ' 

The  more  he  thought  of  it  the  more  evi- 


BARCLAY'S    BONFIRE  35 

dent  it  appeared  that  the  day's  triumph  over 
the  Yale  Checkers  Club  deserved  some  sort 
of  a  public  jubilee.  He  might,  considered 
Barclay,  put  his  head  out  of  the  window  and 
cheer.  But  he  wasn't  sure  that  he  knew  how. 
Or  he  might  shoot  off  a  revolver— if  he  had 
one.  Or  he  might  start  a  bonfire— ah,  that 
was  it ;  a  bonfire !  The  idea  appealed  strongly 
to  him;  and  he  remembered  that  as  a  boy  on 
a  New  Hampshire  farm  bonfires  had  ever 
moved  him  strangely. 

He  arose  and  thrust  his  feet  into  a  pair  of 
immense  overshoes,  tied  a  muffler  about  his 
long  neck,  donned  his  worn  ulster,  turned  down 
the  lamp,  and  passed  out  of  the  room.  Yes, 
he  would  celebrate  with  a  bonfire.  A  victory 
over  Yale  at  checkers  was  quite  as  important 
in  Barclay's  estimation  as  a  triumph  over  the 
blue-stockinged  football  warriors. 

Fifteen  minutes  later  a  'window  at  the 
upper  end  of  the  college  yard  was  slammed 
open,  and  a  voice  bawled  into  the  frosty 
night : 

"Heads  out!    All  heads  out!  " 

Then  up  and  down  the  quadrangle,  case- 
ments were  raised  and  broad  beams  of  light 


36  BARCLAY'S   BONFIRE 

glowed  out  into  the  gloom,  while  dozens  of 
other  voices  passed  on  the  slogan : 

"  Heads  out,  fellows!    Heads  out! ' 

"  What's  up?  "  cried  a  thin  voice  from  an 
upper  window  of  Thayer. 

"  Bonfire  in  front  of  University!  "  was 
the  answer. 

"  Bonfire  in  the  yard!  All  heads  out!  " 
sped  the  cry. 

"  Everybody  get  wood!  "  shouted  a  voice 
from  Weld. 

"  Everybody  get  wood!  "  shouted  half  a 
hundred  other  voices. 

Then  windows  were  shut  and  eager  youths 
clattered  down-stairs  and  into  the  yard,  and 
suddenly  the  quiet  night  had  become  a  pande- 
monium. In  front  of  University  Hall  a  lone 
figure  fed,  with  shingles  and  odd  t)its  of  wood, 
a  small  bonfire,  which  cast  its  wan  glow 
against  the  white  front  of  the  sober  pile,  as 
if  dismayed  at  its  own  temerity.  For  bonfires 
in  the  yard  are  strictly  forbidden,  and  it  was 
many  years  before  that  the  last  one  had  sent  its 
sparks  up  in  front  of  University.  Barclay 
knew  this,  and  welcomed  the  danger  of  proba- 
tion or  dismissal  as  adding  an  appropriate 


BARCLAY'S   BONFIRE  37 

touch  of  the  grand  and  heroic  to  his  cele- 
bration. 

"Everybody  get  wood!"  "  What's  it 
for?  "  "  'Eah  for  the  bonfire!  "  "  Who's 
doing  it?"  "Wood,  wood,  get  wood,  fel- 
lows!" 

One  of  the  first  to  reach  the  scene  was 
Cobb,  1901.  A  dozen  others  were  close  behind 
him. 

"Hello,  what's  up?  What  we  celebra- 
ting? "  he  asked  breathlessly;  then  he  caught 
a  glimpse  of  the  thin,  bespectacled  visage  of 
Barclay,  and  gasped,  "  Why,  why,  it's  old 
Barclay!  " 

"  'Rah  for  Barclay,  old  grind!  "  shouted 
another.  "He's  the  stuff!  Everybody  get 
wood!  ' 

At  that  moment  a  worn-out  hen-coop  ar- 
rived suddenly  on  the  scene,  and  a  shower  of 
sparks  told  that  the  fire  was  gaining  courage. 

"  But,  say,  old  man,  what's  it  all  about?  ': 
asked  Cobb. 

"  We  are  celebrating  a  victory  over  Yale," 
answered  Barclay,  soberly,  as  he  adjusted  a 
plank  with  his  foot.  There  was  no  undue  ex- 
citement exhibited  by  this  tall  figure  in  the 


38  BARCLAY'S    BONFIRE 

long  ulster,  but  underneath  his  calm  the  blood 
raced  madly  through  his  veins,  and  a  strange 
and  well-nigh  uncontrollable  joy  possessed  him 
as  the  flames  leaped  higher  and  higher.  He 
stooped  and  picked  a  brand  from  the  edge  of 
the  fire.  He  waved  it  thrice  about  his  head, 
sending  the  flaring  sparks  over  the  ever-in- 
creasing crowd. 

"  Hooray!  "  he  yelled,  in  queer,  uncanny 
tones. 

"  'Rah,  'rah,  'rah!  "  answered  the  throng. 
"  Everybody  get  wood!  ' 

"  But  what'd  we  do  to  'em?  "  asked  Cobb, 
wonderingly.  "  What  was  the  victory?  ': 

"  Won  the  checker  championship!"  an- 
swered Barclay,  proudly. 

A  roar  of  laughter  went  up;  fellows  fell 
on  their  neighbors'  necks  and  giggled  hys- 
terically; a  football  man  sat  down  in  the  fire 
and  had  to  be  rescued  by  his  friends;  Cobb 
hugged  Barclay  and  patted  him  on  the  back. 

"  Good  old  Barclay!  "  he  gurgled.  "  Oh, 
good  old  Barclay !  Won  the  checker  champ — 
champ — champ — oh,  dear,  oh,  dear!  Some- 
body hit  me  before  I —  I " 

"  More  wood!  "  bawled  some  one.    "  'Rah 


BARCLAY'S    BONFIRE  39 

for  Barclay,  the  champion  checkerist!  Ev- 
erybody cheer  for  Barclay!  ' 

And  everybody  did,  many,  many  times. 
More  wood  leaped  from  out  the  darkness  and 
fell  upon  the  flaming  heap,  which  now  rose 
to  the  fellows'  shoulders  and  crackled  right 
merrily.  The  vicinity  of  the  bonfire  was 
black  with  yelling,  laughing  students;  and 
every  moment  their  number  grew,  as  the  light 
was  seen  at  distant  dormitories  or  the  shout- 
ing was  heard  across  the  avenue. 

"  Speech!  "  cried  the  throng.  "  Speech! 
Speech!  '  And  Barclay  was  quickly  elevated 
to  the  shoulders  of  Cobb  and  another,  and 
from  there  spoke  feelingly  of  the  inception 
and  growth  of  the  Checkers  Club ;  of  the  tour- 
nament and  of  the  victory.  Very  few  heard 
all  that  speech,  for  it  was  cheered  incess- 
antly; and  those  at  the  edge  of  the  crowd 
yelled:  "  Who's  the  fellow  that's  talking?  " 
"  What'd  he  do?  "  "  It's  Dewey!  "  "  No, 

if  >q    » 

J.U    o 

At  that  moment  some  one  started  a  song, 
and  by  common  impulse  the  students  formed 
in  line  and  began  the  circuit  of  the  yard,  Bar- 
clay, on  the  shoulders  of  the  two  riotous 


40  BARCLAY'S    BONFIRE 

friends,  leading  the  procession.  Thrice 
around  they  went,  singing  the  college  songs, 
cheering  on  every  provocation,  clasping  arms 
and  swinging  ecstatically  from  side  to  side 
and  raising  such  an  uproar  as  the  old  college 
had  not  often  heard. 

"  The  most  gorgeous  bonfire  since  we  won 
the  boat-race!  "  panted  a  senior,  at  the  end 
of  the  parade.  "  And  the  biggest  celebra- 
tion; but  I'd  like  jolly  well  to  know  what  it's 
for!" 

"  Join  hands!  r  was  the  cry,  and  soon 
three  great  rings  of  dancing,  striding  youths 
were  circling  the  fire,  their  fantastic  shadows 
leaping  grotesquely  across  the  front  of  the 
buildings.  And  just  when  the  frolic  was  at 
its  height,  and  the  fire  was  crackling  more 
joyously  than  ever;  just  when  the  quiet  win- 
ter stars  were  hearkening  for  the  fiftieth  time 
to  the  hoarse  cheers  in  honor  of  Barclay,  the 
dean  and  three  professors  walked  into  the  cir- 
cle of  radiance,  and  the  throng  melted  as  if  by 
magic,  until  Barclay,  spectacleless,  hatless, 
but  exultant,  was  left  standing  alone  by  his 
bonfire. 

"  Ah,  Mr.  Barclay,"  said  the  dean,  pleas- 


BARCLAY'S    BONFIRE  41 

antly,    "  will    you    kindly    call    on    me    to- 
morrow? ': 

"  I  think  we  will  let  the  matter  drop,"  said 
the  dean  next  day,  hiding  a  smile  under  an 
affected  frown,  "  if  you  will  promise,  Mr. 
Barclay,  to  indulge  yourself  in  no  more— 
ah — "  the  dean's  voice  failed  him,  and  he 
swallowed  spasmodically  twice  before  he 
found  it  again — "  no  more  celebrations  of 
victory." 

And  Barclay,  very  remorseful  and  chas- 
tened this  morning,  promised,  and  hurried  off 
to  his  beloved  Greek. 

Both  Barclay  and  the  Yale  Checkers  Club 
graduated  from  their  respective  universities 
the  following  spring,  and  consequently  the 
Intercollegiate  Checkers  Association  died. 
But  although  gone,  it  is  not  forgotten;  and 
"  Barclay's  bonfire  '•  is  still  spoken  of  as 
"  the  most  gorgeous  thing  that  ever  hap- 
pened." 


MARTY  BROWN— MASCOT 

MARTIN— more  familiarly  "  Marty  "— 
Brown's  connection  with  the  Summerville 
Baseball  Club  had  begun  the  previous  spring, 
when,  during  a  hotly  contested  game  with  the 
High  School  nine,  Bob  Ayer,  Summerville 's 
captain,  watching  his  men  go  down  like  nine- 
pins before  the  puzzling  curves  of  the  rival 
pitcher,  found  himself  addressed  by  a  small 
snub-nosed,  freckle-faced  youth  with  very 
bright  blue  eyes  and  very  dusty  bare  feet : 

"  Want  me  ter  look  after  yer  bats?  >: 

"  No." 

"  All  right,"  was  the  cheerful  response. 

The  umpire  called  two  strikes  on  the  bats- 
man, and  Bob  muttered  his  anger. 

"  I  don't  want  nothin'  fer  it,"  announced 
the  boy  beside  him,  insinuatingly,  digging  a 
hole  in  the  turf  with  one  bare  toe. 

Bob  turned,  glad  of  something  to  vent  his 

Copyright,  1898,  by  THB  CENTURY  Co.    All  rights  reserved. 
42 


MARTY    BROWN— MASCOT  43 

wrath  upon.  "  No!  Get  out  of  here!  "  he 
snarled. 

"  All  right,"  was  the  imperturbable  an- 
swer. 

Then  the  side  was  out,  and  Bob  trotted  to 
first  base.  That  half  inning,  the  last  of  the 
seventh,  was  a  tragedy  for  the  town  nine,  for 
the  High  School  piled  three  runs  more  on 
their  already  respectable  lead,  and  when  Bob 
came  in  he  had  well-defined  visions  of  defeat. 
It  was  his  turn  at  the  bat.  When  he  went  to 
select  his  stick  he  was  surprised  to  find  the 
barefooted,  freckle-faced  youth  in  calm  pos- 
session. 

"  What—  ?  "  he  began  angrily. 

Marty  leaped  up  and  held  out  a  bat.  Bob 
took  it,  astonished  to  find  that  it  was  his  own 
pet  "  wagon-tongue,"  and  strode  off  to  the 
plate,  too  surprised  for  words.  Two  minutes 
later,  he  was  streaking  toward  first  base  on  a 
safe  hit  to  center  field.  An  error  gave  him 
second,  and  the  dwindling  hopes  of  Summer- 
ville  began  to  rise  again.  The  fellows  found 
the  High  School  pitcher  and  fairly  batted  him 
off  his  feet,  and  when  the  side  went  out  it  had 
added  six  runs  to  its  tally,  and  lacked  but  one 


44  MARTY   BROWN  — MASCOT 

of  being  even  with  its  opponent.  Meanwhile 
Marty  rescued  the  bats  thrown  aside,  and 
arranged  them  neatly,  presiding  over  them 
gravely,  and  showing  a  marvelous  knowledge 
of  each  batsman's  wants. 

Summerville  won  that  game  by  two  runs, 
and  Bob  Ayer  was  the  first  to  declare,  with 
conviction,  that  it  was  all  owing  to  Marty. 
The  luck  had  changed,  he  said,  as  soon  as  the 
snub-nosed  boy  had  taken  charge  of  the  club's 
property. 

Every  one  saw  the  reasonableness  of  the 
assertion,  and  Marty  was  thereupon  adopted 
as  the  official  mascot  and  general  factotum  of 
the  Summerville  Baseball  Club.  Since  then 
none  had  disputed  Marty's  right  to  that  posi- 
tion, and  he  had  served  tirelessly,  proud- 
ly, mourning  the  defeats  and  glorying  in 
the  victories  as  sincerely  as  Bob  Ayer  him- 
self. 

Marty  went  to  the  grammar-school  "  when 
it  kept,"  and  in  the  summer  became  a  wage- 
earner  to  the  best  of  his  ability,  holding  in- 
secure positions  with  several  grocery  and 
butcher  stores  as  messenger  and  "  special  de- 
livery." But  always  on  Saturday  afternoons 


MARTY   BROWN  — MASCOT  45 

he  was  to  be  found  squatting  over  the  bats  at 
the  ball-ground;  he  never  allowed  the  desire 
for  money  to  interfere  with  his  sacred  duty 
as  mascot  and  custodian  of  club  property. 
Every  one  liked  Marty,  and  he  was  as  much 
a  part  of  the  Summerville  Baseball  Club  as  if 
one  of  the  nine.  His  rewards  consisted  chiefly 
of  discarded  bats  and  balls;  but  he  was  well 
satisfied :  it  was  a  labor  of  love  with  him,  and 
it  is  quite  probable  that,  had  he  been  offered 
a  salary  in  payment  of  the  services  he  ren- 
dered, he  would  have  indignantly  refused  it. 
For  the  rest,  he  was  fifteen  years  old,  was  not 
particularly  large  for  his  age,  still  retained 
the  big  brown  freckles  and  the  snub  nose,  had 
lively  and  honest  blue  eyes,  and,  despite  the 
fact  that  his  mother  eked  out  a  scanty  living 
by  washing  clothes  for  the  well-to-do  of  the 
town,  had  a  fair  idea  of  his  own  importance, 
without,  however,  risking  his  popularity  by 
becoming  too  familiar.  The  bare  feet  were 
covered  now  by  a  pair  of  run-down  and  very 
dusty  shoes,  and  his  blue  calico  shirt  and  well- 
patched  trousers  were  always  clean  and  neat. 
On  his  brown  hair  rested,  far  back,  a  blue- 
and-white  baseball  cap  adorned  with  a  big  S, 


46  MARTY    BROWN  — MASCOT 

the  gift  of  Bob  Ayer,  and  Marty's  only  badge 
of  office. 

To-day  Marty  had  a  grievance.  He  sat  on 
a  big  packing-box  in  front  of  Castor's  Cash 
Grocery  and  kicked  his  heels  softly  against 
its  side.  Around  him  the  air  was  heavy  with 
the  odor  of  burning  paper  and  punk,  and 
every  instant  the  sharp  sputter  of  fire-crack- 
ers broke  upon  his  reverie.  It  was  the  Fourth 
of  July  and  almost  noon.  It  was  very  hot, 
too.  But  it  was  not  that  which  was  troubling 
Marty.  His  grief  sprung  from  the  fact  that, 
in  just  twenty  minutes  by  the  town-hall  clock 
up  there,  the  Summerville  Baseball  Club,  sup- 
ported by  a  large  part  of  the  town's  younger 
population,  would  take  the  noon  train  for 
Vulcan  to  play  its  annual  game  with  the  nine 
of  that  city;  and  it  would  go,  Marty  bitterly 
reflected,  without  its  mascot. 

Vulcan  was  a  good  way  off — as  Marty 
viewed  distance — and  the  fare  for  the  round 
trip  was  $1.40,  just  $1.28  more  than  Marty 
possessed.  He  had  hinted  to  Bob  Ayer  and 
to  "  Herb  "  Webster,  the  club's  manager,  the 
real  need  of  taking  him  along — had  even  been 
gloomy  and  foretold  a  harrowing  defeat  for 


MARTY   BROWN  — MASCOT  47 

their  nine  in  the  event  of  his  absence  from 
the  scene.  But  Summerville's  finances  were 
at  low  ebb,  and,  owing  to  the  sickness  of  one 
good  player  and  the  absence  of  another,  her 
hopes  of  capturing  the  one-hundred-dollar 
purse  which  was  yearly  put  up  by  the  citizens 
of  the  rival  towns  were  but  slight.  So  Marty 
was  to  be  left  behind.  And  that  was  why 
Marty  sat  on  the  packing-case  and  grieved, 
refusing  to  join  in  the  lively  sport  of  his 
friends  who,  farther  up  the  street,  were  firing 
off  a  small  brass  cannon  in  front  of  Hurlbert's 
hardware  store. 

Already,  by  ones  and  twos,  the  Vulcan- 
bound  citizens  were  toiling  through  the  hot 
sun  toward  the  station.  Marty  watched  them, 
and  scowled  darkly.  For  the  time  he  was  a 
radical  socialist,  and  railed  silently  at  the  un- 
just manner  in  which  riches  are  distributed. 
Presently  a  group  of  five  fellows,  whose  ages 
varied  from  seventeen  to  twenty-one,  came 
into  sight  upon  the  main  street.  They  wore 
gray  uniforms,  with  blue  and  white  stockings 
and  caps  of  the  same  hues,  and  on  their 
breasts  were  big  blue  S's.  Two  of  them  car- 
ried, swung  between  them,  a  long  leather  bag 


48  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

containing  Marty's  charge,  the  club's  bats. 
The  players  spied  the  boy  on  the  box,  and 
hailed  him  from  across  the  street.  Marty's 
reply  was  low-toned  and  despondent.  But 
after  they  had  turned  the  corner  toward  the 
station,  he  settled  his  cap  firmly  on  his  head 
and,  sliding  off  the  box,  hurried  after  them. 

The  station  platform  was  well  filled  when 
he  gained  it.  Bob  Ayer  was  talking  excitedly 
to  Joe  Sleeper,  and  Marty,  listening  from  a 
distance,  gathered  that  Magee,  the  Summer- 
ville  center-fielder,  had  not  put  in  his  ap- 
pearance. 

"If  he  fails  us,"  Bob  was  saying  anx- 
iously, "  it's  all  up  before  we  start.  We're 
crippled  already.  Has  any  one  seen  him?  ' 

None  had,  and  Bob,  looking  more  worried 
than  before,  strode  off  through  the  crowd  to 
seek  for  news.  Of  course,  Marty  told  him- 
self, he  didn't  want  Summerville  to  lose,  but, 
just  the  same,  if  they  did,  it  would  serve 
them  right  for  not  taking  him  along.  A  long 
whistle  in  the  distance  sounded,  and  Bob  came 
back,  shaking  his  head  in  despair. 

"  Not  here,"  he  said. 

A  murmur  of  dismay  went  up  from  the 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  49 

group,  and  Marty  slid  off  the  baggage-truck 
and  approached  the  captain. 

"  Say,  let  me  go  along,  won't  yer,  Bob?  " 

Bob  turned,  and,  seeing  Marty's  eager 
face,  forgot  his  worry  for  the  moment,  and 
asked  kindly:  "  Can  you  buy  your  ticket?  ' 

"  No."  Marty  clenched  his  hands  and 
looked  desperately  from  one  to  another  of 
the  group.  The  train  was  thundering  down 
the  track  beside  the  platform.  "  But  you 
fellows  might  buy  me  one.  And  I'd  pay  yer 
back,  honest!  ' 

"  Say,  Bob,  let's  take  him,"  said  Hamil- 
ton. "  Goodness  knows,  if  we  ever  needed  a 
mascot,  we  need  one  to-day!  Here,  I'll  chip 
in  a  quarter." 

"  So'll  I,"  said  Sleeper.  "  Marty  ought 
to  go  along;  that's  a  fact." 

"  Here's  another."  "  You  pay  for  me, 
Dick,  and  I'll  settle  with  you  when  we  get 
back."  "  I'll  give  a  quarter,  too." 

"  All  aboard!  "  shouted  the  conductor. 

"  All  right,  Marty;  jump  on,"  cried  Bob. 
"  We'll  find  the  money — though  I  don't  know 
where  your  dinner's  coming  from!  ' 

Marty  was  up  the  car-steps  before  Bob  had 


50  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

finished  speaking,  and  was  hauling  the  long 
bag  from  Wolcott  with  eager  hands.  Then 
they  trooped  into  the  smoking-car,  since  the 
day-coaches  were  already  full,  and  Marty  sat 
down  on  the  stiff  leather  seat  and  stood  the 
bag  beside  him.  The  train  pulled  out  of  the 
little  station,  and  Marty's  gloom  gave  place 
to  radiant  joy. 

The  journey  to  Vulcan  occupied  three- 
quarters  of  an  hour,  during  which  time  Bob 
and  the  other  eight  groaned  over  the  absence 
of  Magee  and  Curtis  and  Goodman,  predicted 
defeat  in  one  breath  and  hoped  for  victory  in 
the  next,  and  rearranged  the  batting  list  in 
eleven  different  ways  before  they  were  at  last 
satisfied.  Marty  meanwhile,  with  his  scuffed 
shoes  resting  on  the  opposite  seat,  one  brown 
hand  laid  importantly  upon  the  leather  bag 
and  his  face  wreathed  in  smiles,  kept  his  blue 
eyes  fixedly  upon  the  summer  landscape  that 
slid  by  the  open  window.  It  was  his  first  rail- 
way trip  of  any  length,  and  it  was  very  won- 
derful and  exciting.  Even  the  knowledge  that 
defeat  was  the  probable  fate  ahead  of  the  ex- 
pedition failed  to  more  than  tinge  his  pleasure 
with  regret. 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  51 

At  Vulcan  the  train  ran  under  a  long  iron- 
roofed  structure,  noisy  with  the  puffing  of  en- 
gines, the  voices  of  the  many  that  thronged 
the  platforms,  and  the  clanging  of  a  brazen 
gong  announcing  dinner  in  the  station  restau- 
rant. Marty  was  awed  but  delighted.  He 
carried  one  end  of  the  big  bag  across  the  street 
to  the  hotel,  his  eager  eyes  staring  hither  and 
thither  in  wide  amaze.  Vulcan  boasted  of  a 
big  bridge-works  and  steel-mills,  and  put  on 
many  of  the  airs  of  a  larger  city.  Bob  told 
Marty  that  they  had  arranged  for  his  dinner 
in  the  hotel  dining-room,  but  the  latter  de- 
murred on  the  score  of  expense. 

"  Yer  see,  I  want  ter  pay  yer  back,  Bob, 
and  so  I  guess  I  don't  want  ter  go  seventy- 
five  cents  fer  dinner.  Why,  that's  more'n 
what  three  dinners  costs  us  at  home.  I'll  just 
go  out  and  get  a  bit  of  lunch,  I  guess.  Would 
yer  lend  me  ten  cents?  '; 

Marty  enjoyed  himself  thoroughly  during 
the  succeeding  half -hour:  He  bought  a  five- 
cent  bag  of  peanuts  and  three  bananas,  and 
aided  digestion  by  strolling  about  the  streets 
while  he  consumed  them,  at  last  finding  his 
way  to  the  first  of  the  wonderful  steel-mills 


52  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

and  wandering  about  freely  among  the  be- 
wildering cranes,  rollers,  and  other  ponderous 
machines.  He  wished  it  was  not  the  Fourth 
of  July ;  he  would  like  to  have  seen  things  at 
work.  Finally,  red-faced  and  perspiring,  he 
hurried  back  to  the  hotel  and  entered  a  coach 
with  the  others,  and  was  driven  through  the 
city  to  the  ball-ground.  This  had  a  high  board 
fence  about  it,  and  long  tiers  of  seats  half 
encircling  the  field.  There  were  lots  of  per- 
sons there,  and  others  were  arriving  every 
minute.  Marty  followed  the  nine  into  a  little 
dressing-room  built  under  the  grand  stand, 
and  presently  followed  them  out  again  to  a 
bench  in  the  shade  just  to  the  left  of  the  home 
plate.  Here  he  unstrapped  his  bag  and  ar- 
ranged the  bats  on  the  ground,  examining 
them  carefully,  greatly  impressed  with  his 
own  importance. 

The  Vulcans,  who  had  been  practising  on 
the  diamond,  trotted  in,  and  Bob  and  the 
others  took  their  places.  The  home  team  wore 
gray  costumes  with  maroon  stockings  and 
caps,  and  the  big  V  that  adorned  the  shirts 
was  also  maroon.  Many  of  them  were  work- 
ers in  the  steel-mills,  and  to  Marty  they 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  53 

seemed  rather  older  than  the  Summervilles. 
Then  the  umpire,  a  very  small  man  in  a  snuff- 
colored  alpaca  coat  and  cap,  made  his  ap- 
pearance, and  the  men  at  practise  came  in. 
The  umpire  tossed  a  coin  between  Bob  and 
the  Vulcans'  captain,  and  Bob  won  with 
"  heads!  "  and  led  his  players  into  the  field. 
A  lot  of  men  just  back  of  Marty  began  to 
cheer  for  the  home  team  as  Vulcan's  first  man 
went  to  bat. 

It  were  sorry  work  to  write  in  detail  of 
the  disastrous  first  seven  innings  of  that  game. 
Summerville 's  hope  of  taking  the  one-hun- 
dred-dollar purse  home  with  them  languished 
and  dwindled,  and  finally  faded  quite  away 
when,  in  the  first  half  of  the  seventh  inning, 
Vulcan  found  Warner's  delivery  and  batted 
the  ball  into  every  quarter  of  the  field,  and 
ran  their  score  up  to  twelve.  Summerville 
went  to  bat  in  the  last  half  plainly  discour- 
aged. Oliver  struck  out.  Hamilton  hit  to 
second  base  and  was  thrown  out.  Pickering 
got  first  on  balls,  but  "  died  "  there  on  a  well- 
fielded  fly  of  Warner's. 

Vulcan's  citizens  yelled  delightedly  from 
grand  stand  and  bleachers.  Summerville  had 


54  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

given  a  stinging  defeat  to  their  nine  the  year 
before  at  the  rival  town,  and  this  revenge 
was  glorious.  They  shouted  gibes  that  made 
Marty's  cheeks  flush  and  caused  him  to  double 
his  fists  wrathfully  and  wish  that  he  were 
big  enough  to  "  lick  somebody";  and  they 
groaned  dismally  as  one  after  another  of  the 
blue-and-white  players  went  down  before  Ba- 
ker's superb  pitching.  Summerville's  little 
band  of  supporters  worked  valiantly  against 
overwhelming  odds  to  make  their  voices 
heard,  but  their  applause  was  but  a  drop  in 
that  sea  of  noise. 

The  eighth  inning  began  with  the  score  12 
to  5,  and  Stevens,  captain  and  third-baseman 
of  the  Vulcans,  went  to  bat  with  a  smile  of 
easy  confidence  upon  his  face.  He  led  off  with 
a  neat  base-Mt  past  short-stop.  The  next 
man,  Storrs,  their  clever  catcher,  found  War- 
ner's first  ball,  and  sent  it  twirling  skyward 
in  the  direction  of  left  field.  Webster  was 
under  it,  but  threw  it  in  badly,  and  Stevens 
got  to  third.  The  next  batsman  waited  coolly 
and  took  his  base  on  balls.  Warner  was  badly 
rattled,  and  had  there  been  any  one  to  put  in 
his  place  he  would  have  been  taken  out.  But 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  55 

Curtis,  the  substitute  pitcher,  was  ill  in  bed  at 
Summerville,  and  helpless  Bob  Ayer  ground 
his  teeth  and  watched  defeat  overwhelm  him. 
With  a  man  on  third,  another  on  first,  and 
but  one  out,  things  again  looked  desperate. 

Warner,  pale  of  face,  wrapped  his  long 
fingers  about  the  ball  and  faced  the  next  bats- 
man. The  coaches  kept  up  a  volley  of  dis- 
concerting advice  to  the  runners,  most  of  it 
intended  for  the  pitcher's  ear,  however.  On 
Warner's  first  delivery  the  man  on  first  went 
leisurely  to  second,  well  aware  that  the  Sum- 
merville catcher  would  not  dare  to  throw  lest 
the  runner  on  third  should  score.  With  one 
strike  against  him  and  three  balls,  the  man 
at  bat  struck  at  a  rather  deceptive  drop  and 
started  for  first.  The  ball  shot  straight  at 
Warner,  hot  off  the  bat.  The  pitcher  found 
it,  but  fumbled.  Regaining  it  quickly,  he 
threw  to  the  home  plate,  and  the  Vulcan  cap- 
tain speedily  retraced  his  steps  to  third.  But 
the  batsman  was  safe  at  first,  and  so  the  three 
bases  were  full. 

"  Home  run!  Home  run,  O'Brien!  ': 
shrieked  the  throng  as  the  next  man,  a  red- 
haired  little  youth,  gripped  his  stick  firmly. 


56  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

O  'Brien  was  quite  evidently  a  favorite  as  well 
as  a  good  player.  Warner  and  Oliver,  Suni- 
merville's  catcher,  met  and  held  a  whispered 
consultation  to  the  acompaniment  of  loud 
ridicule  from  the  audience.  Then  the  battery 
took  their  places. 

"  Play  for  the  plate, "  cried  Bob  at  first 
base. 

Warner's  first  delivery  was  a  wide  throw 
that  almost  passed  the  catcher.  "  Ball!  ': 
droned  the  umpire.  The  men  on  bases  were 
playing  far  off,  and  intense  excitement 
reigned.  On  the  next  delivery  Warner  stead- 
ied himself  and  got  a  strike  over  the  plate. 
A  shout  of  applause  from  the  plucky  Sum- 
merville  spectators  shattered  the  silence.  An- 
other strike;  again  the  applause.  O'Brien 
gripped  his  bat  anew  and  looked  surprised 
and  a  little  uneasy. 

"  He     can't     do     it     again,     O'Brien!  ' 
shrieked  an  excited  admirer  in  the   grand 
stand. 

But  O'Brien  didn't  wait  to  see.  He  found 
the  next  delivery  and  sent  it  whizzing,  a 
red-hot  liner,  toward  second.  Pandemonium 
broke  loose.  Sleeper,  Summerville's  second- 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  57 

baseman,  ran  forward  and  got  the  ball  head 
high,  glanced  quickly  aside,  saw  the  runner 
from  first  speeding  by,  lunged  forward, 
tagged  him,  and  then  threw  fiercely,  desper- 
ately home.  The  sphere  shot  like  a  cannon- 
ball  into  Oliver's  outstretched  hands,  there 
was  a  cloud  of  yellow  dust  as  Stevens  slid  for 
the  home  plate,  and  then  the  umpire's  voice 
droned:  "  Out,  here!" 

Summerville,  grinning  to  a  man,  trotted  in, 
and  the  little  handful  of  supporters  yelled 
themselves  hoarse  and  danced  ecstatically 
about.  Even  the  Vulcan  enthusiasts  must  ap- 
plaud the  play,  though  a  bit  grudgingly.  For 
the  first  time  in  many  innings,  Marty,  squat- 
ting beside  the  bats,  drew  a  big  scrawling  0  in 
the  tally  which  he  was  keeping  on  the  ground, 
with  the  aid  of  a  splinter. 

It  was  the  last  half  of  the  eighth  inning, 
and  Bob  Ayer's  turn  at  the  bat.  Marty  found 
his  especial  stick,  and  uttered  an  incantation 
beneath  his  breath  as  he  held  it  out. 

"  We're  going  to  win,  Bob,"  he  whis- 
pered. 

Bob  took  the  bat,  shaking  his  head. 

"  I'm  afraid  you  don't  work  as  a  mascot 


58  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

to-day,  Marty,"  he  answered  smilingly.  But 
Marty  noticed  that  there  was  a  look  of  reso- 
lution in  the  captain's  face  as  he  walked  to- 
ward the  box,  and  took  heart. 

Summerville's  admirers  greeted  Bob's  ap- 
pearance with  a  burst  of  applause,  and  Vul- 
can's captain  motioned  the  field  to  play  far- 
ther out.  Vulcan's  pitcher  tossed  his  arms 
above  his  head,  lifted  his  right  foot  into  the 
air,  and  shot  the  ball  forward.  There  was  a 
sharp  crack,  and  the  sphere  was  sailing 
straight  and  low  toward  center  field.  Bob 
touched  first  and  sped  on  to  second.  Center 
field  and  left  field,  each  intent  upon  the  ball, 
discovered  each  other's  presence  only  when 
they  were  a  scant  four  yards  apart.  Both 
paused — and  the  ball  fell  to  earth!  Bob, 
watching,  flew  toward  third.  It  was  a  close 
shave,  but  he  reached  it  ahead  of  the  ball  in 
a  cloud  of  dust,  and,  rising,  shook  himself  in 
the  manner  of  a  dog  after  a  bath.  Summer- 
ville's  supporters  were  again  on  their  feet, 
and  their  shouts  were  extraordinary  in  vol- 
ume, considering  their  numbers.  Vulcan's 
citizens,  after  a  first  burst  of  anger  and  dis- 
may, had  fallen  into  chilling  silence.  Marty 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  59 

hugged  himself,  and  nervously  picked  out 
Howe's  bat. 

The  latter,  Summerville's  short-stop  and 
a  mere  boy  of  seventeen,  was  only  an  ordinary 
batsman,  and  Marty  looked  to  see  him  strike 
out.  But  instead,  after  waiting  with  admira- 
ble nerve  while  ball  after  ball  shot  by  him,  he 
tossed  aside  his  stick  and  trotted  to  first  base 
on  balls,  amid  the  howls  of  the  visitors.  Sum- 
merville's first  run  for  four  innings  was 
scored  a  moment  later  when  Bob  stole  home 
on  a  passed  ball. 

Summerville's  star  seemed  once  more  in 
the  ascendant.  Howe  was  now  sitting  con- 
tentedly on  second  base.  "  Herb  ':  Webster 
gripped  his  bat  firmly  and  faced  the  pitcher. 
The  latter,  for  the  first  time  during  the  game, 
was  rattled.  Bob,  standing  back  of  third, 
coached  Howe  with  an  incessant  roar: 

"  On  your  toes!  Get  off!  Get  off !  Come 
on,  now!  Come  on!  He  won't  throw!  Come 
on,  come  on!  That's  right!  That's  the  way! 
Now!  Wh-o-o-a!  Easy!  Look  out!  Try  it 
again,  now!  ' 

Baker  received  the  ball  back  from  second, 
and  again  faced  the  batsman.  But  he  was 


60  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

worried,  and  proved  it  by  his  first  delivery. 
The  ball  went  far  to  the  right  of  the  catcher, 
and  Howe  reached  third  base  without  hurry- 
ing. When  Baker  again  had  the  ball,  he 
scowled  angrily,  made  a  feint  of  throwing  to 
third,  and,  turning  rapidly,  pitched.  The  ball 
was  a  swift  one  and  wild,  and  Webster  drew 
back,  then  ducked.  The  next  instant  he  was 
lying  on  the  ground,  and  a  cry  of  dismay 
arose.  The  sphere  had  hit  him  just  under  the 
ear.  He  lay  there  unconscious,  his  left  hand 
still  clutching  his  bat,  his  face  white  under  its 
coat  of  tan.  Willing  hands  quickly  lifted  him 
into  the  dressing-room,  and  a  doctor  hurried 
from  the  grand  stand.  Bob,  who  had  helped 
carry  him  off  the  field,  came  out  after  a  few 
minutes  and  went  to  the  bench. 

"  He's  all  right  now,"  he  announced. 
"  That  is,  he's  not  dangerously  hurt,  you 
know.  But  he  won't  be  able  to  play  again  to- 
day. Doctor  says  he'd  better  go  to  the  hotel, 
and  we've  sent  for  a  carriage.  I  wish  to  good- 
ness I  knew  where  to  find  a  fellow  to  take  his 
place!  Think  of  our  coming  here  without  a 
blessed  substitute  to  our  name !  I  wish  I  had 
Magee  for  a  minute ;  if  I  wouldn't  show  him 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  61 

a  thing  or  two!  Warner,  you'd  better  take 
poor  Webster's  place  as  runner;  I'll  tell  the 
umpire. ' ' 

In  another  moment  the  game  had  begun 
again,  Warner  having  taken  the  place  of  the 
injured  left-fielder  at  first  base,  and  Sleeper 
having  gone  to  bat.  Yulcan's  pitcher  was 
pale  and  his  hands  shook  as  he  once  more 
began  his  work;  the  injury  to  Webster  had 
totally  unnerved  him.  The  immediate  result 
was  that  Sleeper  knocked  a  two-bagger  that 
brought  Howe  home,  placed  Warner  on  third 
and  himself  on  second;  and  the  ultimate  re- 
sult was  that  five  minutes  later,  when  Oliver 
fouled  out  to  Vulcan's  third-baseman,  Sleeper 
and  Wolcott  had  also  scored,  and  the  game 
stood  12  to  9. 

Bob  Ayer  meanwhile  had  searched  unsuc- 
cessfully for  a  player  to  take  the  injured  Web- 
ster's place,  and  had  just  concluded  to  apply 
to  Vulcan's  captain  for  one  of  his  substitutes, 
when  he  turned  to  find  Marty  at  his  side. 

"  Are  yer  lookin'  fer  a  feller  to  play  left 
field?  " 

"  Yes,"  answered  Bob,  eagerly,  "  Do  you 
know  of  any  one?  " 


62  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

Marty  nodded. 

"  Who?" 

"  Me." 

Bob  stared  in  surprise,  but  Marty  looked 
back  without  flinching.  "I  can  play,  Bob; 
not  like  you,  of  course,  but  pretty  well.  And, 
besides,  there  ain't  no  one  else,  is  there  ?  Give 
me  a  show,  will  yer?  ' 

Bob's  surprise  had  given  place  to  deep 
thought.  "  Why  not?"  he  asked  himself.  Of 
course  Marty  could  play  ball;  what  Summer- 
ville  boy  couldn't,  to  some  extent?  And,  be- 
sides, as  Marty  said,  there  was  no  one  else. 
Bob  had  seen  Marty  play  a  little  while  the  nine 
was  practising,  and,  so  far  as  he  knew,  Marty 
was  a  better  player  than  any  of  the  Summer- 
ville  boys  who  had  come  with  the  nine  and  now 
sat  on  the  grand  stand.  The  other  alternative 
did  not  appeal  to  him:  his  pride  revolted  at 
begging  a  player  from  the  rival  club.  He 
turned  and  strode  to  the  bench,  and  Marty 
eagerly  watched  him  conferring  with  the  oth- 
ers. In  a  moment  he  turned  and  nodded. 

A  ripple  of  laughter  and  ironic  applause 
crept  over  the  stands  as  Marty,  attired  in  his 
blue  shirt  and  unshapen  trousers,  trotted  out 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  63 

to  his  position  in  left  field.  The  boy  heard  it, 
but  didn't  care.  His  nerves  were  tingling 
with  excitement.  It  was  the  proudest  mo- 
ment of  his  short  life.  He  was  playing  with 
the  Summerville  Baseball  Club!  And  deep 
down  in  his  heart  Marty  Brown  pledged  his 
last  breath  to  the  struggle  for  victory. 

Vulcan  started  in  on  their  last  inning  with 
a  determination  to  add  more  runs  to  their 
score.  The  first  man  at  bat  reached  first  base 
on  a  safe  hit  to  mid-field.  The  second,  Vul- 
can's center-fielder  and  a  poor  batsman,  struck 
out  ingloriously.  When  the  next  man  strode 
to  the  plate,  Bob  motioned  the  fielders  to 
spread  out.  Marty  had  scarcely  run  back  a 
half  dozen  yards  when  the  sharp  sound  of  ball 
on  bat  broke  upon  the  air,  and  high  up  against 
the  blue  sky  soared  the  little  globe,  sailing 
toward  left  field.  Marty's  heart  was  in  his 
mouth,  and  for  the  moment  he  wished  himself 
back  by  the  bench,  with  no  greater  duty  than 
the  care  of  the  bats.  It  was  one  thing  to  play 
ball  in  a  vacant  lot  with  boys  of  his  own  age, 
and  another  to  display  his  powers  in  a  big 
game,  with  half  a  thousand  excited  persons 
watching  him.  At  first  base  the  runner  was 


64  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

poised  ready  to  leap  away  as  soon  as  the  ball 
fell  into  the  fielder's  hands — or  to  the  ground! 
The  latter  possibility  brought  a  haze  before 
Marty's  eyes,  and  for  an  instant  he  saw  at  least 
a  dozen  balls  coming  toward  him;  he  won- 
dered, in  a  chill  of  terror,  which  was  the 
real  one!  Then  the  mist  faded,  he  stepped 
back  and  to  the  right  three  paces,  telling  him- 
self doggedly  that  he  had  to  catch  it,  put  up 
his  hands 

A  shout  of  applause  arose  from  the  stands, 
and  the  ball  was  darting  back  over  the  field  to 
second  base.  Marty,  with  a  swelling  heart, 
put  his  hands  in  his  trousers  pockets  and  whis- 
tled to  prove  his  indifference  to  applause. 

The  batsman  was  out,  but  the  first  runner 
stood  safely  on  third  base.  And  then,  with 
two  men  gone,  Vulcan  set  bravely  to  work  and 
filled  the  remaining  bases.  A  safe  hit  meant 
two  more  runs  added  to  Vulcan's  score.  The 
fielders,  in  obedience  to  Bob's  command,  crept 
in.  The  grand  stand  and  the  bleachers  were 
noisy  with  the  cheers  of  the  spectators.  War- 
ner glanced  around  from  base  to  base,  slowly 
settled  himself  into  position,  and  clutched  the 
ball.  The  noise  was  deafening,  but  his  nerves 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  65 

were  again  steady,  and  he  only  smiled  care- 
lessly at  the  efforts  of  the  coaches  to  rattle 
him.  His  arms  shot  up,  and  a  straight  deliv- 
ery sent  the  sphere  waist  high  over  the  plate. 

"  Strike !  "  crooned  the  umpire.  Applause 
from  the  Summerville  deputation  was  drowned 
in  renewed  shouts  and  gibes  from  the  rest  of 
the  audience.  Warner  received  the  ball,  and 
again,  very  deliberately,  settled  his  toe  into 
the  depression  in  the  trampled  earth.  Up 
shot  his  arms  again,  again  he  lunged  forward, 
and  again  the  umpire  called : 

"  Strike  two!  " 

The  batter  stooped  and  rubbed  his  hands 
in  the  dust,  and  then  gripped  the  stick  reso- 
lutely. The  ball  went  back  to  Warner,  and  he 
stepped  once  more  into  the  box.  For  a  mo- 
ment he  studied  the  batsman  deliberately,  a 
proceeding  which  seemed  to  worry  that  youth, 
since  he  lifted  first  one  foot  and  then  the  other 
off  the  ground  and  waved  his  bat  impatiently. 

"  Play  ball!  "  shrieked  the  grand  stand. 

Warner  smiled,  rubbed  his  right  hand  re- 
flectively upon  his  thigh,  glanced  casually 
about  the  bases,  lifted  one  spiked  shoe  from 
the  ground,  tossed  his  arms  up,  and  shot  the 


66  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

ball  away  swiftly.  Straight  for  the  bats- 
man's head  it  went,  then  settled  down,  down, 
and  to  the  left  as  though  attracted  by  Oliver's 
big  gloves  held  a  foot  above  the  earth  just  back 
of  the  square  of  white  marble.  The  man  at 
bat,  his  eyes  glued  to  the  speeding  sphere,  put 
his  stick  far  around,  and  then,  with  a  sudden 
gasp,  whirled  it  fiercely.  There  was  a  thud 
as  the  ball  settled  cozily  into  Oliver's  leather 
gloves,  a  roar  from  the  onlookers,  and  above 
it  all  the  umpire's  fatal : 

"  Striker— out!" 

Marty,  watching  breathless  and  wide-eyed 
from  the  field,  threw  a  handspring  and  uttered 
a  whoop  of  joy.  The  nines  changed  places, 
and  the  last  half  of  the  last  inning  began  with 
the  score  still  12  to  9  in  favor  of  Vulcan. 

"  Play  carefully,  fellows,"  shouted  Vul- 
can's captain  as  Hamilton  went  to  bat. 
"  We've  got  to  shut  them  out." 

"  If  youse  can,"  muttered  Marty,  seated 
on  the  bench  between  Bob  and  Wolcott. 

It  looked  as  though  they  could.  Bob 
groaned  as  Hamilton  popped  a  short  fly  into 
second-baseman's  hands,  and  the  rest  of  the 
fellows  echoed  the  mournful  sound. 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  67 

"  Lift  it,  Will,  lift  it!  "  implored  Bob  as 
Pickering  strode  to  the  plate.  And  lift  it  he 
did.  Unfortunately,  however,  when  it  de- 
scended it  went  plump  into  the  hands  of  right 
field.  In  the  stand  half  the  throng  was  on 
its  feet.  Bob  looked  hopelessly  at  Warner  as 
the  pitcher  selected  a  bat. 

"  Cheer  up,  Bob,"  said  the  latter,  grin- 
ning. "  I'm  going  to  crack  that  ball  or  know 
the  reason  why!  ' 

The  Vulcan  pitcher  was  slow  and  careful. 
They  had  taken  the  wearied  Baker  out  and 
put  in  a  new  twirler.  Warner  let  his  first 
effort  pass  unnoticed,  and  looked  surprised 
when  the  umpire  called  it  a  strike.  But  he 
received  the  next  one  with  a  hearty  welcome, 
and  sent  it  speeding  away  for  a  safe  hit,  taking 
first  base  amid  the  wild  cheers  of  the  little 
group  of  blue-and-white-decked  watchers. 
Hamilton  hurried  across  to  coach  the  runner, 
and  Bob  stepped  to  the  plate.  His  contribu- 
tion was  a  swift  liner  that  was  too  hot  for  the 
pitcher,  one  that  placed  Warner  on  second 
and  himself  on  first.  Then,  with  Hamilton 
and  Sleeper  both  coaching  at  the  top  of  their 
lungs,  the  Vulcan  catcher  fumbled  a  ball  at 


68  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

which  Howe  had  struck,  and  the  two  runners 
moved  up.  The  restive  audience  had  over- 
flowed on  to  the  field  now,  and  excitement 
reigned  supreme.  Another  strike  was  called 
on  Howe,  and  for  a  moment  Summerville's 
chances  appeared  to  be  hopeless.  But  a  min- 
ute later  the  batter  was  limping  to  first,  having 
been  struck  with  the  ball,  and  the  pitcher  was 
angrily  grinding  his  heel  into  the  ground. 

"  Webster  at  bat!  "  called  the  scorer. 

"  That's  you,  Marty,"  said  Wolcott.  "  If 
you  never  do  another  thing,  my  boy,  swat  that 
ball!  " 

Marty  picked  out  a  bat  and  strode  coura- 
geously to  the  plate.  A  roar  of  laughter 
greeted  his  appearance. 

"  Get  on  to  Blue  Jeans! ':  "  Give  us  a 
home  run,  kid!  '  "  Say,  now,  sonny,  don't 
fall  over  your  pants!  ' 

It  needed  just  that  ridicule  to  dispel 
Marty's  nervousness.  He  was  angry.  How 
could  he  help  his  "  pants  r>  being  long?  he 
asked  himself,  indignantly.  He'd  show  those 
dudes  that  "  pants  "  hadn't  anything  to  do 
with  hitting  a  baseball!  He  shut  his  teeth 
hard,  gripped  the  bat  tightly,  and  faced  the 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  69 

pitcher..  The  latter  smiled  at  his  adversary, 
but  was  not  willing  to  take  any  chances,  with 
the  bases  full.  And  so,  heedless  of  the  re- 
quests to  "  Toss  him  an  easy  one,  Joe!  "  he 
delivered  a  swift,  straight  drop  over  the  plate. 

"  Strike!  "  droned  the  little  umpire,  skip- 
ping aside. 

Marty  frowned,  but  gave  no  other  sign  of 
the  chill  of  disappointment  that  traveled  down 
his  spine.  On  the  bench  Wolcott  turned  to 
his  next  neighbor  and  said,  as  he  shook  his 
head  sorrowfully : 

"  Hard  luck!  If  it  had  only  been  some 
one  else's  turn  now,  we  might  have  scored.  I 
guess  little  Marty's  not  up  to  curves." 

Marty  watched  the  next  delivery  carefully 
— and  let  it  pass. 

"  Ball!  "  called  the  umpire. 

Again  he  held  himself  in,  although  it  was 
all  he  could  do  to  keep  from  swinging  at  the 
dirty-white  globe  as  it  sped  by  him. 

"  Two  balls!" 

"  That's  right,  Marty;  wait  for  a  good 
one,"  called  Wolcott,  hoping  against  hope  that 
Marty  might  get  to  first  on  balls.  Marty 
made  no  answer,  but  stood  there,  pale  of  face 


70  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

but  cool,  while  the  ball  sped  around  the  bases 
and  at  last  went  back  to  the  pitcher.  Again 
the  sphere  sped  forward.  Now  was  his  time ! 
With  all  his  strength  he  swung  his  bat — and 
twirled  around  on  his  heel !  A  roar  of  laugh- 
ter swept  across  the  diamond. 

"  Strike  two!  "  cried  the  umpire. 

But  Marty,  surprised  at  his  failure,  yet  un- 
daunted, heard  nothing  save  the  umpire's  un- 
moved voice.  Forward  flew  the  ball  again, 
this  time  unmistakably  wide  of  the  plate,  and 
the  little  man  in  the  snuff-colored  alpaca  coat 
motioned  to  the  right. 

"  Three  balls!" 

Bob,  restlessly  lifting  his  feet  to  be  off  and 
away  on  his  dash  to  third,  waited  with  despair- 
ing heart.  Victory  or  defeat  depended  upon 
the  next  pitch.  A  three-bagger  would  tie  the 
score,  a  safe  hit  would  bring  Sleeper  to  the 
bat !  But  as  he  looked  at  the  pale-faced,  odd- 
looking  figure  beside  the  plate  he  realized  how 
hopeless  it  all  was.  The  pitcher,  thinking 
much  the  same  thoughts,  prepared  for  his  last 
effort.  Plainly  the  queer  little  ragamuffin 
was  no  batsman,  and  a  straight  ball  over  the 
plate  would  bring  the  agony  to  an  end.  Up 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  71 

went  his  hand,  and  straight  and  sure  sped  the 
globe. 

Now,  there  was  one  kind  of  ball  that  Marty 
knew  all  about,  and  that  was  a  nice,  clean, 
straight  one,  guiltless  of  curve  or  drop  or  rise, 
the  kind  that  "  Whitey  "  Peters  pitched  in 
the  vacant  lot  back  of  Keller's  Livery  Stable. 
And  Marty  knew  that  kind  when  he  saw  it 
coming.  Fair  and  square  he  caught  it,  just 
where  he  wanted  it  on  the  bat.  All  his 
strength,  heart,  and  soul  were  behind  that 
swing.  There  was  a  sharp  crack,  a  sudden 
mighty  roar  from  the  watchers,  and  Marty 
was  speeding  toward  first  base. 

High  and  far  sped  the  ball.  Center  and 
left  fielder  turned  as  one  man  and  raced  up 
the  field.  Obeying  instructions,  they  had 
been  playing  well  in,  and  now  they  were  to 
rue  it.  The  roar  of  the  crowd  grew  in  volume. 
Warner,  Bob,  and  Howe  were  already  racing 
home,  and  Marty,  running  as  hard  as  his  legs 
would  carry  him,  was  touching  second.  Far 
up  the  field  the  ball  was  coming  to  earth  slowly, 
gently,  yet  far  too  quickly  for  the  fielders. 

1  i  A  home  run ! ' '  shrieked  Wolcott.  "  Come 
on — oh,  come  on,  Marty,  my  boy!  " 


72  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

Warner  was  home,  now  Bob,  and  then 
Howe  was  crossing  the  plate,  and  Marty  was 
leaving  second  behind  him.  Would  the  fielder 
catch  it?  He  dared  look  no  longer,  but  sped 
onward.  Then  a  new  note  crept  into  the 
shouts  of  the  Yulcans,  a  note  of  disappoint- 
ment, of  despair.  Up  the  field  the  center- 
fielder  had  tipped  the  ball  with  one  out- 
stretched hand,  but  had  failed  to  catch  it !  At 
last,  however,  it  was  speeding  home  toward 
second  base. 

"  Come  on!  Come  on,  Marty!  "  shrieked 
Bob. 

The  boy's  twinkling  feet  spurned  the  third 
bag  and  he  swung  homeward.  The  ball  was 
settling  into  the  second-baseman's  hands. 
The  latter  turned  quickly  and  threw  it 
straight,  swift,  unswerving  toward  the  plate. 
^  "  Slide!  "  yelled  Bob  and  Warner,  in  a 
breath. 

Marty  threw  himself  desperately  forward ; 
there  was  a  cloud  of  brown  dust  at  the  plate, 
a  thug  as  the  ball  met  the  catcher's  gloves. 
The  little  man  in  the  alpaca  coat  turned 
away  with  a  grin,  and  picked  up  his  mask 
again. 


MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT  73 

"  Safe,  here!  " 

The  score  was  13  to  12  in  Summerville's 
favor;  Marty's  home  run  had  saved  the  day! 

In  another  minute  or  two  it  was  all  over. 
Sleeper  had  popped  a  high  fly  into  the  hands 
of  the  discomfited  center-fielder,  and  the 
crowds  swarmed  inward  over  the  diamond. 

It  was  a  tired,  hungry,  but  joyous  little 
group  that  journeyed  back  to  Summerville 
through  the  soft,  mellow  summer  twilight. 
Marty  and  the  leather  bat-case  occupied  a 
whole  seat  to  themselves.  Marty's  freckled 
face  was  beaming  with  happiness  and  pride, 
his  heart  sang  a  psean  of  triumph  in  time  to 
the  clickety-dick  of  the  car-wheels,  and  in  one 
hand,  tightly  clenched,  nestled  a  ten-dollar 
gold  piece. 

It  was  his  share  of  the  hundred-dollar 
purse  the  nine  had  won,  Bob  had  explained, 
and  it  had  been  voted  to  him  unanimously. 
And  next  spring  he  was  to  join  the  team  as 
substitute!  And  Marty,  doubting  the  trusti- 
ness of  his  pockets,  held  the  shining  prize 
firmly  in  his  fist  and  grinned  happily  over  the 
praise  and  thanks  of  his  companions. 


74  MARTY  BROWN  — MASCOT 

"  It  wasn't  nothin',  that  home  run;  any 
feller  could  have  done  that! '  And,  besides, 
he  explained,  he  had  known  all  along  that  they 
were  going  to  win.  "  Why, — don't  you  see? 
— the  other  fellers  didn't  have  no  mascot!  " 


PARMELEE'S     'SPREAD' 

THE  room  was  old-fashioned,  a  dark- walled 
parallelogram,  the  farthest  end  of  which  was 
seldom  reached  by  the  light  which  crept 
through  the  two  small-paned  windows.  Over- 
head four  huge  rafters  passed  from  side  to 
side. 

The  ledges  beneath  the  windows  formed 
wide  seats,  which  were  upholstered  in  somber 
corduroy.  The  mantel  above  the  large  fire- 
place was  narrow,  high,  a  mere  shelf,  designed 
a  century  ago  to  hold  the  twin  candlesticks  and 
the  snuffers  on  their  silver  tray. 

The  occupant  had  wisely  confined  the  fur- 
nishings to  old-style  mahogany  in  quaint  Chip- 
pendale forms.  The  green-shaded  student- 
lamp  on  the  desk  under  the  heavy  bronze  chan- 
delier gave  almost  the  only  modern  touch.  Yet 
with  all  its  gloom,  the  apartment  was  singu- 
larly homelike  and  restful. 

75 


76  PARMELEE'S  "SPREAD" 

Perhaps  this  thought  occurred  to  Panne- 
lee,  '00,  as  he  closed  the  door  behind  him,  for 
his  gaze  swept  slowly  over  the  room,  and  he 
sighed  once  as  he  removed  his  cap  and  gown 
and  laid  them  carefully  aside.  He  crossed  to 
one  of  the  windows,  and  sank  back  dispiritedly 
against  the  cushions. 

Parmelee's  face,  seen  in  the  warm  light  of 
a  late  June  afternoon,  lost  something  of  its 
usual  paleness,  but  the  serious  lines  about  the 
mouth  and  the  pathos  of  the  deep-set  brown 
eyes  were  accentuated. 

The  face,  on  the  whole,  was  strikingly 
handsome.  The  forehead  under  the  dark  hair 
was  broad  and  high;  the  nose  straight  and 
fairly  large ;  the  mouth,  despite  its  grave  lines, 
seemed  made  for  smiles ;  the  chin  was  full  and 
firm.  Yet  the  expression  now  was  one  of 
weariness  and  melancholy. 

Through  the  open  windows  came  faintly 
the  strains  of  a  waltz  from  the  band  in  the  col- 
lege yard.  Over  the  top  of  a  vividly  green 
chestnut-tree  the  western  sky  was  beginning 
to  glow  with  the  colors  of  sunset.  Now  and 
then  a  student  in  cap  and  gown,  or  the  more 
brilliant  attire  appropriate  to  class-day,  hur- 


FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD"  77 

ried  past  the  house ;  but  for  the  most  the  little 
street  was  deserted  and  still. 

Parmelee  had  done  his  duty.  He  had  con- 
scientiously taken  part  in  all  the  exercises  of 
the  day,  excepting  only  those  about  the  tree. 
When  the  procession  that  had  marched  about 
the  yard  and  cheered  the  buildings  had  dis- 
solved, he  had  hurried  away  to  his  room,  lone- 
some and  downhearted. 

Every  one  seemed  so  disgustingly  happy! 
Fellows  with  nice  mothers  and  pretty  sisters, 
cousins  or  sweethearts  appeared  to  flaunt  them 
before  Parmelee 's  eyes;  fellows  hurrying  off 
to  somebody's  spread  thrust  him  unceremoni- 
ously out  of  the  way  with  muttered  apologies. 
He  was  so  out  of  it  all!  He  had  no  women- 
folk to  take  care  of,  no  friends  to  greet,  no 
spreads  to  attend.  He  was  simply  a  nonen- 
tity; merely  "  Parmelee,  that  hunchbacked 
fellow." 

That  was  Parmelee 's  trouble.  All  his  life 
he  had  been  a '  *  hunchback. "  As  a  boy  he  had 
often  taken  flight  before  the  merciless  gibes 
of  his  companions,  too  sick  at  heart  to  follow 
his  first  impulse  to  stand  and  fight. 

When   he   had   entered   the   preparatory 


78  PARMELEE'S  "SPREAD" 

school  he  had  enclosed  himself  in  a  shell  of 
sensitiveness,  and  had  missed  many  a  friend- 
ship that  might  have  been  his.  At  college  it 
had  been  the  same.  He  believed  his  deform- 
ity to  be  repellent  to  others,  and  credited  them 
with  sentiments  of  distaste  or  pity,  when,  as 
was  generally  the  case,  the  attractiveness  of 
his  countenance  made  them  blind  to  his  defect 
of  form.  Naturally  fond  of  athletics,  he  be- 
lieved himself  barred  from  them.  He  made 
few  acquaintances  and  no  friends ;  no  friends, 
that  is,  except  one. 

Philip  Schuyler  and  he  had  met  in  their 
freshman  year.  Schuyler,  refusing  to  be  re- 
pelled, had  won  his  way  through  Parmelee's 
defenses,  and  the  two  had  been  inseparable 
until  shortly  before  the  last  Christmas  recess. 
Then  they  had  quarreled. 

The  cause  had  been  such  a  tiny  thing  that 
it  is  doubtful  if  either  still  remembered  it. 
Pride  had  prevented  the  reconciliation  which 
should  have  followed,  and  the  two  friends  had 
drifted  widely  apart. 

Parmelee  sometimes  told  himself  bitterly 
that  Schuyler  had  made  the  quarrel  an  excuse 
for  ending  a  companionship  of  which  he  was 


PARMELEE'S  "SPREAD"  79 

wearied.  Schuyler  had  quickly  found  new 
friends ;  Parmelee  simply  retired  more  deeply 
than  before  into  his  shell.  It  meant  more  to 
him,  that  quarrel,  than  to  Schuyler.  He  had 
lost  the  only  real  friend  of  his  life.  The 
wound  was  a  deep  one,  and  it  refused  to  heal. 
On  this  day  it  ached  more  than  it  had  for 
months. 

Parmelee  glanced  at  his  watch,  suddenly 
realizing  that  he  was  hungry.  He  had  missed 
his  lunch.  It  was  yet  far  from  the  dinner- 
hour,  he  found. 

Then  he  remembered  that  his  boarding- 
house  would  be  practically  given  over  that 
evening  to  a  spread.  He  shrank  from  the 
idea  of  facing  the  throng  that  would  be  pres- 
ent. The  restaurants  would  be  crowded.  A 
solitary  dinner  in  town  was  not  attractive. 
The  only  alternative  was  to  go  dinnerless,  or 
— yes,  he  could  have  something  here  in  his 
room.  He  smiled  a  trifle  bitterly. 

"  It  will  be  Parmelee 's  spread,"  he  said. 

He  went  out  and  turned  his  steps  toward 
the  avenue.  In  the  store  he  surprised  the 
clerk  by  the  magnitude  of  his  order.  The 
whimsical  idea  of  having  a  spread  of  his  own 


80  FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD" 

grew  upon  him.  The  expense  meant  nothing 
to  Trim. 

When  he  was  ready  to  return,  the  bundle 
of  his  purchases  was  so  large  that  for  the  mo- 
ment he  was  dismayed.  Then  he  took  it  in  his 
arms  and  retraced  his  steps. 

Back  in  his  room,  the  first  difficulty  that 
confronted  him  was  the  lack  of  a  tablecloth, 
but  this  was  presently  solved  by  spreading  two 
immense  white  bath-towels  over  the  study 
table.  Then  he  began  the  distribution  of  the 
viands. 

The  matter  of  table  decoration  was  some- 
thing of  a  problem,  and  in  the  solving  of  it  he 
forgot  his  depression,  and  even  whistled  a 
tune  while  trying  to  decide  whether  to  bank 
all  the  oranges  together  or  to  distribute  them 
in  a  sort  of  border  about  the  edge  of  the  table. 

A  few  plates  would  have  been  an  aid,  but 
it  was  possible  to  do  without  them.  The 
olives  occasioned  much  bother  by  refusing  to 
emerge  on  the  point  of  the  knife-blade  from 
the  narrow  neck  of  their  tall  bottle.  This  dif- 
ficulty was  at  last  obviated  by  pouring  off  the 
brine  and  emptying  the  olives  upon  a  sheet 
of  letter-paper.  The  canned  meats  and  the 


PARMELEE'S  "SPREAD"  81 

glasses  of  jellies  and  the  tins  of  crackers  he 
arranged  with  geometrical  precision,  forming 
stars,  circles  and  diamonds  in  outline.  The 
oranges  formed  a  pyramid  in  the  center  of 
the  board,  topped  with  a  bunch  of  vivid 
radishes. 

Parmelee  stood  off  and  viewed  the  result, 
at  first  critically,  then  with  approval.  Dis- 
placing the  big  armchair,  he  shoved  the  ban- 
quet-table up  to  one  of  the  windows,  and  set  a 
fiddle-backed  mahogany  chair  before  it.  The 
effect  was  incongruous,  and  he  chuckled  aloud. 

"  You're  the  loneliest-looking  chair  I  ever 
saw!  "  he  exclaimed.  "  Here,  this  is  better." 

He  seized  another  chair  and  placed  it  at 
the  opposite  side  of  the  table. 

1 1  There,  that  balances.  Besides,  one  should 
always  make  provision  for  the  unexpected 
guest.  Perchance,  the  president  or  the  dean 
may  drop  in." 

He  gave  a  final  look  at  the  repast  and  dis- 
appeared into  the  bedroom  at  the  back.  Pres- 
ently the  sound  of  splashing  water  told  its  own 
story. 

At  that  moment  the  house  door  slammed, 
footsteps  sounded  in  the  hall,  and  there  was 


82  FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD" 

a  knock  at  Parmelee 's  door.  But  Parmelee, 
rioting  at  the  basin  in  the  back  room,  heard 
nothing.  After  an  interval  the  knocking  was 
repeated.  Then  the  knob  turned  and  the  door 
opened. 

The  visitor  was  a  very  erect,  white-whisk- 
ered man  of  about  fifty,  possessing  a  degree 
of  stoutness  that  set  off  to  the  best  advantage 
his  well-cut  black  coat,  white  waistcoat  and 
gray  trousers.  His  dark  eyes  gleamed  with 
kindliness  and  humor. 

He  held  his  shining  hat  and  his  gloves  in 
his  hand,  and  looked  questioningly  about  the 
room.  Then  the  sound  of  Parmelee 's  ablu- 
tions caught  his  ear,  and  he  took  a  step  for- 
ward. 

"  Is  there  any  one  at  home?  "  he  called. 

Parmelee,  in  his  shirt-sleeves,  the  water 
dripping  from  the  end  of  his  nose,  came  to 
the  inner  doorway,  the  towel  clutched  desper- 
ately in  one  hand,  and  stared  with  amaze- 
ment. 

"  I  beg  your  pardon,  sir,  for  this  intru- 
sion, "  the  visitor  said.  "  I  knocked,  and 
receiving  no  answer,  took  the  liberty  of  enter- 
ing unbidden.  We  old  graduates  lay  claim 


FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD"  83 

to  many  privileges  on  class-day,  you  know; 
nothing  is  sacred  to  us." 

He  paused.  Parmelee  grasped  the  towel 
more  firmly,  as  if  it  were  a  weapon  of  defense 
to  be  used  against  the  invader,  and  nodded 
silently.  His  gaze  fell  on  the  banquet,  and 
amazement  gave  way  to  dismay. 

"  I  escaped  from  my  wife  and  daughter 
after  much  scheming,"  continued  the  visitor, 
"  in  order  to  slip  down  here  and  have  a  look 
at  this  room.  I  haven't  seen  it  for — well,  not 
since  I  graduated,  and  that  was  twenty-nine 
years  ago  this  month." 

"  Ah!  '  Parmelee  had  found  his  tongue. 
"  You  lived  here  while  in  college?  ' 

"  Four  years.  After  I  entered  the  law 
school  I  roomed  in  town.  But  don't  let  me 
disturb  you.  I'll  just  glance  round  a  moment, 
if  I  may." 

Parmelee 's  courtesy  came  to  the  surface 
again.  The  visitor's  designs  were  plainly 
above  suspicion.  It  was  very  awkward, 
but- 

"  Certainly,  sir;  just  make  yourself  at 
home.  If  you'll  pardon  me  for  a  moment,  I'll 
get  my  coat  on." 


84  FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD" 

The  visitor  bowed  deprecatingly,  and  Par- 
melee  disappeared  again.  He  reentered  the 
study  a  moment  later,  to  find  that  the  visitor 
had  laid  aside  his  hat  and  gloves,  and,  with 
hands  clasped  behind  him,  was  looking  from 
a  window  across  the  vista  of  trees  and  roofs 
at  the  sunset  sky.  He  turned  as  Parmelee 
approached,  sighed,  smiled  apologetically,  and 
waved  a  hand  toward  the  view. 

"  I  have  just  accomplished  a  wonderful 
feat,"  he  said.  "  I  have  wiped  out  a  quarter 
of  a  century." 

Parmelee  smiled  politely.  "  I  presume 
you  find  things  much  changed?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  yes;  but  not  here.  That  view  is 
almost  the  same  as  it  was  when  I  sat  in  that 
window  there,  studying,  reading,  dreaming, 
just  as  we  all  will  when  we're  young;  just  as 
I  dare  say  you  have  done  many  times." 

"  But  I  fancy,  sir,  your  dreams  came  true." 

"  My  boy,  none  of  our  dreams  ever  come 
true  just  as  we  dream  them.  They  couldn't; 
they  are  much  too  grand.  I  have  nothing  to 
complain  of  and  much  to  be  happy  for,  but ' 
— he  shook  his  head,  smiling  wistfully — "  I'm 
not  the  hero  of  those  dreams." 


PARM.E LEE'S  "SPREAD"  85 

"  I  suppose  it's  idle  work,  picturing  the 
future,  dreaming  of  the  great  things  we're 
going  to  do,"  answered  Parmelee,  soberly; 
"  but— it's  hard  not  to." 

"  No,  no,  don't  think  that!  "  The  visitor 
laid  a  hand  for  a  moment  on  Parmelee 's  shoul- 
der, then  darted  a  quick  look  of  surprise  at 
the  place  his  fingers  had  touched.  Parmelee 
saw  it,  and  a  wave  of  color  dyed  his  face.  But 
the  other  continued  after  a  pause  that  was 
almost  imperceptible.  "  Don't  think  that, 
my  boy.  Life  wouldn  't  be  half  what  it  is  with- 
out dreams.  And  who  knows?  Perhaps 
yours  are  destined  to  come  true.  I  hope  they 
will." 

"  They  never  have,"  said  Parmelee,  bit- 
terly. 

The  older  man  smiled.  "  But  there's  time 
yet."  He  turned  and  walked  slowly  about 
the  apartment,  nodding  his  head  now  and 
then,  viewing  the  dark  rafters  as  he  might 
have  viewed  old  friends,  and  putting  his  head 
in  the  bedroom  door,  but  declining  Parmelee 's 
invitation  to  enter. 

Reminiscences  came  to  his  mind,  and  he 
told  them  lightly,  entertainingly.  He  stood 


86  FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD" 

for  several  moments  in  front  of  the  empty 
fireplace,  and  sighed  again  as  he  turned  away. 

He  moved  toward  where  he  had  laid  his 
hat  and  gloves.  "  I  left  word  with  my  wife 
to  tell  my  son  to  come  here  for  me,  but  I 
don't  see  him."  He  picked  up  his  hat  and 
looked  out  into  the  street.  "  He  took  part 
in  the  tree  exercises ;  he  would  have  to  change 
his  clothes  afterward,  and  that  would  take 
some  time.  I  dare  say  if  I  walk  up  the  street 
I  shall  meet  him." 

Parmelee  struggled  in  silence  with  his  re- 
serve ;  then  he  said : 

"  I — I  wish  you'd  wait  here  for  him,  sir. 
You  see,  it's  just  possible  that  you  might  miss 
him  if  you  went." 

"  But  you're  certain  I  sha'n't  be  in  the 
way?  Your  guests  will  not  arrive  for  a 
while?" 

"I'm  not  expecting  any  one,  sir." 

"  Indeed!  '  The  visitor  glanced  at  the 
banquet  and  looked  puzzled.  "  Pardon  me; 
I  thought  you  were  giving  a  small  spread.  I 
shall  be  very  glad  to  remain  if  I'm  not  in  your 
way." 

He  laid  aside  his  hat  and  took  a  seat. 


FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD"  87 

Parmelee  retired  to  the  window  and  frowned 
at  the  banquet.  Of  course  he  had  not  been 
asked  to  explain  it,  but  no  other  course  seemed 
possible;  the  situation  was  ridiculous.  He 
would  make  a  clean  breast  of  it.  Somehow  it 
did  not  seem  difficult  to  tell  things  to  the  kind- 
faced  stranger. 

"  I  dare  say  you  think  I'm  crazy,"  he  said, 
"  with  all  that  stuff  spread  out  there  and — 
and  nobody  coming,  but — "  And  then  he  ex- 
plained things,  although  not  very  lucidly,  for 
he  was  disturbed  by  a  realization  of  the  ab- 
surdity of  the  affair.  But  the  visitor  seemed 
to  understand,  and  when  Parmelee  had  ended, 
he  exclaimed,  with  concern: 

11  Why,  then  I've  been  keeping  you  from 
your  supper!  And  no  lunch,  you  say?  I'd 
no  idea,  I  assure  you — "  He  seized  his  hat 
again.  Parmelee  sprang  to  his  feet. 

"  No,  no,  I'm  not  in  the  least  hungry! 
That  is,  I'm  in  no  hurry." 

The  older  man  hesitated. 

11  But  if  you've  had  no  lunch,  you  must 
be  starved!  Indeed,  I'm  sure  you  must  be! 
I  can  appreciate  your  condition  in  a  measure, 
for  my  own  lunch  was  a  sorry  affair,  although 


88  FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD" 

I  did  get  a  few  bites.    Don't  let  me  keep  you 
a  moment  longer.'7 

"  But — but—  '  exclaimed  Parmelee.     The 

visitor  paused  with  his  hand  on  the  door-knob. 

'  *  Perhaps — you  must  be  hungry  yourself,  and 

—if  you  wouldn't  mind  the  lack  of  knives  and 

forks — and  plates — I'd  be  awfully  glad 

"  Well,  really  now,  I've  half  a  mind  to 
accept,"  laughed  the  other.  "  The  truth  is, 
I'm  as  hungry  as  a  bear.  These  boarding- 
houses  on  class-day—  He  shook  his  head 
expressively.  "  You  are  sure  I'm  not  taking 
some  one  else's  place?  ' 

"  No,  indeed,"  answered  Parmelee.  "  The 
fact  is,  I  set  that  chair  there  for  you  half  an 
hour  ago." 

"  For  me?  "  inquired  the  visitor. 

"  Well,  for  the  unexpected  guest.  You 
see,  sir,  the  one  chair  looked  so  lonely.  Have 
you  room  enough?  Shall  I  move  the  desk 
out  a  bit?  It's  awkward  having  no  plates— 
or  forks — or  anything.  If  you  will  take  this 
penknife,  sir?  And — wait  a  moment!  The 
very  thing!  ' 

Parmelee  excitedly  seized  two  old  blue 
plates  from  over  the  mantel,  dusted  them  on 


FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD"  89 

a  corner  of  the  nearest  bath-towel,  and  pre- 
sented one  to  the  guest. 

"  Queer  I  didn't  think  of  these,  isn't  it? 
I  think  you'll  find  that  sliced  chicken  very 
fair.  Do  you  eat  olives?  I've  never  tried 
cold  Saratoga  chips  myself,  but  they  look 
rather  good." 

He  proffered  one  article  after  another  in 
a  very  fever  of  hospitality.  In  his  eagerness 
he  distributed  the  olives  impartially  over  the 
whole  board  and  brought  the  piece  de  resist- 
ance, the  pyramid  of  oranges,  tumbling  into 
ruins. 

The  guest  laid  down  his  pocket-knife  and 
looked  gravely  across  at  his  host. 

"  Is — is  anything  the  matter?  "  faltered 
Parmelee. 

"  I  must  refuse  to  go  on  until  I  see  you 
eating  something." 

"  Oh!  '  Parmelee  blushed  and  seized  a 
tin  of  potted  turkey  at  random.  After  that 
the  banquet  progressed  finely.  The  unex- 
pected guest  did  full  justice  to  the  repast, 
and  the  unaccustomed  host  remembered  his 
own  hunger  and  satisfied  it.  More  than  that, 
he  forgot  his  shyness  and  was  radiantly  happy. 


90  FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD" 

And  after  a  while,  when  the  last  of  the  straw- 
berries had  disappeared,  he  suddenly  found 
himself  telling,  in  the  most  natural  way  in 
the  world,  things  that  he  had  never  told  any 
one  before,  except,  perhaps,  Philip  Schuyler. 
He  stopped  short  in  the  middle  of  a  sentence 
in  sudden  embarrassment. 

"  And  so  your  deformity,  such  a  little 
thing  as  it  is,  has  worked  all  this — this  mis- 
ery? "  mused  the  guest.  "  Dear,  dear,  such 
a  pity,  my  boy,  so  unnecessary!  ' 

"  Unnecessary?  "  faltered  Parmelee. 

"  Surely.  You've  been  so  mistaken  when 
you  have  credited  all  kinds  of  unpleasant 
sentiments  to  people.  They  can't  care  any 
the  less  for  you  because  your  back  is  not  as 
straight  as  theirs.  The  fault  has  been  yours, 
ray  boy;  you  haven't  given  people  a  chance 
to  get  near  to  you.  You've  held  them  off  at 
arm's  length  all  your  life.  Take  my  advice. 
After  this  go  out  among  them;  forget  your 
suspicions,  and  see  for  yourself  if  I'm  not 
right.  When  God  put  a  hump  between  your 
shoulders  he  made  up  for  it  in  some  other 
way,  you  may  depend  upon  that.  And  al- 
though I've  known  you  but  an  hour,  I  think 


FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD"  91 

I  know  wherein  the  Lord  has  made  it  up  to 
you.  But  I'm  not  going  to  tell  you;  it  might 
make  you  vain." 

Parmelee  raised  his  own  eyes  to  the  smi- 
ling ones  across  the  table. 

"  I  don't  think  you  need  have  any  appre- 
hensions on  that  score,  sir,"  he  said,  a  trifle 
unsteadily. 

"  Well,  perhaps  not.  I  dare  say  you  need 
a  little  more  vanity.  But  think  over  what 
IVe  said,  and  if  you  can,  act  on  it." 

"  I  will,"  answered  the  other,  earnestly. 
' '  And  I  'm — I  'm  very  grateful.  I  don 't  think 
I  ever — looked  at  it  quite  that  way,  you  see." 

"I'm  certain  you  never  have.  And  an- 
other thing;  I  wouldn't  be  too  quick  to  bring 
in  a  verdict  in  the  case  of  that  friend  you've 
told  me  of.  I  think  when  you  learn  the  truth 
you'll  find  you've  done  him  an  injustice.  And 
forgive  me  if  I  hurt  you,  my  boy,  but  I  think 
you've  been  more  to  blame  than  he  has.  It 
seems  to  me  that  you  were  the  one  to  take  the 
first  step  toward  reconciliation.  Well,  I  really 
must  be  going  to  hunt  up  my  family.  They'll 
think  I'm  lost.  I  don't  know  what's  hap- 
pened to  Philip,  I'm  sure." 


92  FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD" 

"  Philip?  "  asked  Parmelee,  quickly. 

"  My  son,"  answered  the  visitor,  proudly. 
"  He  graduates  this  spring.  Philip  Schuyler. 
Perhaps  you've  met  him?  ': 

«    T >? 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door.  Parmelee 
drew  himself  up  very  straight,  perhaps  to 
give  the  lie  to  the  pallor  of  his  face. 

"  Come  in!  "he  called,  and  the  door  swung 
open. 

The  youth  who  confronted  them  looked 
with  white,  set  face  from  one  to  the  other. 
There  was  an  instant  of  awkward  silence. 
Then,  "  Father! '  he  exclaimed,  in  a  low 
voice. 

"Why,  Philip,  what's  the  matter?"  Par- 
melee's  guest  moved  quickly  to  the  door. 
"  Did  you  think  I  was  lost?  " 

The  son  laughed  uneasily. 

"  I  didn't  know  you  were  coming  here;  I 
only  learned  it  from  mother  a  few  minutes 
ago."  It  sounded  like  an  apology,  and  the 
older  man  looked  apprehensively  from  his  son 
to  his  host. 

"  But  was  there — any  reason  why  I 
shouldn't  have  come  here,  Phil?  " 


FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD"  93 

Philip  Schuyler  glanced  from  his  father  to 
Parmelee's  set  face,  then  dropped  his  eyes. 

"  Of  course  not,  sir,"  he  replied.  "  It 
was  only  that  I  didn't  know  but  I'd  miss  you. 
Such  a  crowd  in  town!  "  he  muttered. 

"  That's  all  right,  then,"  said  his  father. 
"  And  now  I  want  to  make  you  acquainted 
with  a  friend  of  mine.  I've  only  had  the 
honor  of  calling  him  such  for  an  hour  or  so; 
but  two  persons  can  become  pretty  well  ac- 
quainted in  that  time,  especially  over  the 
table,"  he  added,  smiling.  "  Phil,  this  is — 
but,  dear  me,  I  don't  know  your  name! >: 

"  John  Parmelee,"  answered  his  host. 

"  Ah,  Phil,  this  is  Mr.  Parmelee,  who  has 
been  exceedingly  kind  and  has  ministered  to 
my  wants,  outward  and  inward.  I  want  you 
to  know  him.  Somehow  I  have  an  idea  you 
two  youngsters  will  get  on  together.  Mr.  Par- 
melee, this  is  my  son,  Philip." 

Philip  bowed  without  moving  from  his 
place  at  the  door.  Parmelee  gave  a  gulp  and 
strode  forward,  his  hand  outstretched. 

"  We — we're  not  new  acquaintances,  Mr. 
Schuyler,"  he  said. 

"  Ah !  "    The  older  man  watched  while  the 


94  FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD" 

two  shook  hands  constrainedly.  "  Ah!  "  he 
repeated.  It  was  a  very  expressive  word  as 
he  uttered  it,  and  Parmelee,  glancing  at  his 
face,  saw  that  he  understood  the  situation. 
The  two  unclasped  their  hands,  and  for  a  mo- 
ment viewed  each  other  doubtfully. 

"  If  you  know  each  other,  that  makes  sim- 
pler the  request  I  was  about  to  make,"  said 
Parmelee 's  guest.  "  I  want  Mr.  Parmelee  to 
come  and  make  us  a  visit  for  a  week  or  so, 
Phil.  I  think  the  North  Shore  sunshine  will 
take  some  of  that  white  out  of  his  face.  Just 
see  if  you  can't  persuade  him,  won't  you?  ' 

He  turned  away  toward  the  window.  The 
two  at  the  doorway  looked  at  each  other  for 
an  instant  in  silence.  Then  Philip  Schuyler 
put  out  his  hand,  and  Parmelee  grasped  it. 

"You'll  come?"  asked  Philip,  softly. 
Parmelee  nodded. 

"  If  you  want  me." 

"  Of  course  I  do!  And,  I  say,  Jack,  it's 
— it's  all  right  now,  isn't  it?  " 

"  Yes,  Phil;  it  was  never  anything  else," 
answered  Parmelee,  a  trifle  huskily.  The  two 
gripped  hands  silently,  smilingly,  and  turned 
to  Mr.  Schuyler. 


FARM  ELBE'S  "SPREAD"  95 

"  Are  you  ready,  dad?  ' 

"  Eh?  Oh,  yes.  And,  Mr.  Parmelee,  per- 
haps you  wouldn't  mind  joining  us?  I'd  like 
you  to  meet  Phil's  mother  and  sister.  It — it 
might  be  a  good  chance  to  test  the  value  of 
my  advice,  eh?  '  Parmelee  hesitated  for  a 
moment,  then  took  up  his  gown. 

"  Thank  you,  sir,  I  think  it  might, "  he 
said. 


'NO    HOLDING ' 

THE  captain,  the  head  coach  and  the  trainer 
of  the  Hillton  Academy  football  team  sat  about 
the  table  in  the  head  coach's  room.  It  was 
the  evening  of  November  27th,  and  on  the  mor- 
row, Thanksgiving  day,  the  wearers  of  the 
crimson  were  to  meet  on  the  gridiron  their 
old-time  rivals  of  St.  Eustace  Academy,  in  the 
final  and  most  important  contest  of  the  year. 

The  drop-light  illumined  three  thoughtful 
faces.  Bob  Syddington,  captain,  a  broad- 
shouldered  and  fine-looking  lad  of  eighteen, 
traced  figures  on  the  green-leather  table-cover- 
ing and  scowled  intently.  Gardiner,  the  head 
coach,  a  man  of  thirty,  wrote  on  a  sheet  of 
paper  with  a  scratching  pen.  The  trainer 
and  the  school's  physical  director,  Mr.  Beck, 
leaned  back  in  his  chair,  his  eyes  from  behind 
the  gold-rimmed  glasses  fixed  speculatively 
upon  Syddington.  Gardiner  looked  up. 

"  Cantrell  at  left  half,  of  course?  " 

Syddington  nodded. 

96 


"NO  HOLDING"  97 

"  He  won't  last  the  game,"  said  the  trainer, 
"  but  he's  good  for  the  first  half." 

The  coach's  pen  scratched  again.  Syd- 
dington  scowled  more  darkly  and  his  hand 
trembled  a  little  over  the  leather. 

"  How  about  right  half? '  Gardiner 
glanced  fleetingly  at  the  captain  and  then, 
questioningly,  at  the  trainer.  The  latter 
spoke  after  a  moment: 

"  Well,  Lane's  first  choice,  isn't  he?  " 

"  To  my  mind,  yes,"  answered  Gardiner, 
"  but  Syddington  thinks  Servis  should  start 
the  game;  that  while  he's  not  so  brilliant  as 
Lane,  he's  more  steady.  I  don't  share  Syd- 
dington's  distrust  of  Lane,  but  if  he  thinks 
he's  going  to  feel  that  he  has  better  support 
behind  him,  I'm  willing  to  hold  Lane  out  until 
he's  needed." 

"  Then  there's  Lane's  knee,"  said  Syd- 
dington, without  looking  up. 

"  The  knee's  all  right,"  said  Beck,  de- 
cisively. "  Physically  Lane's  in  as  good 
shape  as  he  was  before  the  injury." 

"  Ye-es,  but  Servis  has  never  been  hurt," 
answered  Syddington.  "  Seems  to  me  that 
makes  him  less  liable  to  injury  now." 


98  "NO  HOLDING" 

His  face  was  pale  and  there  were  little 
stubborn  creases  about  the  mouth.  The 
trainer  opened  his  lips  as  if  to  reply,  but 
closed  them  again.  Gardiner  examined  his 
pen  and  waited.  Restraint  was  in  the  air. 

"  I  think  we'd  better  start  with  Servis," 
said  Syddington,  after  a  moment.  He  heaved 
a  sigh  of  relief  and  shot  a  glance  at  Beck. 

The  latter 's  face  wore  an  expression  of 
disappointment,  which  disappeared  under  the 
lad's  scrutiny,  but  which,  nevertheless,  caused 
Syddington  to  transfer  his  gaze  to  the  table 
and  sent  a  flush  to  his  cheeks. 

Gardiner  wrote  for  a  moment.  "  That 
leaves  only  full-back,  and  Hale's  our  man 
there.  And  that  finishes  the  line-up.  I'll 
read  it  over." 

Then  he  and  Beck  discussed  once  more  the 
plan  of  the  battle. 

Bob  Syddington  heard  nothing.  He  was 
fighting  a  battle  of  his  own,  and  his  thoughts 
were  far  from  pleasant.  To  do  a  dishonor- 
able act  knowingly,  deliberately,  is  in  itself 
disagreeable  enough  to  a  boy  who  has  all  his 
life  hated  mean  actions.  But  to  know  that 
two  persons  in  whose  eyes  one  particularly 


"NO  HOLDING"  99 

wants  to  appear  clean  and  honorable  are 
aware  of  the  act  adds  greater  bitterness. 

Syddington  entertained  no  illusions.  He 
knew  that  when  he  had  caused  Servis's  name 
to  be  placed  in  the  line-up  instead  of  Lane's 
he  had  done  a  dishonorable  thing.  And  he 
knew  that  both  the  head  coach  and  the  trainer 
were  equally  aware  of  the  fact,  and  that  he 
had  fallen  far  in  their  estimation ;  that  hence- 
forth they  must  hold  him,  at  the  best,  in  pity- 
ing contempt.  A  monstrous  price,  he  told 
himself  bitterly,  to  pay  for  next  year's  cap- 
taincy ! 

And  he  was  not  only  injuring  himself,  but 
by  deposing  Lane  he  was  placing  in  jeopardy 
the  team's  success  in  the  "  big  game."  There 
was  never  a  doubt  but  that  Lane  was  the  man 
for  the  position  of  right  half-back.  Without 
exception  he  was  the  most  brilliant  player  at 
Hillton.  He  had  won  the  game  with  Shrews- 
burg  by  a  sixty-yard  run  for  a  touch-down. 
More  than  once  in  minor  games  he  had  brought 
the  spectators  to  their  feet  by  his  daring  run- 
ning or  hurdling.  It  was  almost  a  certainty 
that  if  he  went  into  the  St.  Eustace  game  he 
would  do  just  what  the  school  expected,  and 


100  "NO  HOLDING" 

by  brilliant  playing  become  the  hero  of  the 
year.  And  there  lay  the  rub. 

Only  the  day  before,  Carter,  the  right 
tackle,  had  warned  him:  "  If  there  was  an 
election  now,  Bob,  we'd  make  you  captain 
again  by  a  majority  of  one  or  two.  But  if 
Lane  goes  in  and  does  his  usual  spectacular 
stunt,  he'll  be  the  next  captain  as  sure  as  fate. 
Take  my  advice  and  keep  him  out  somehow. 
You've  got  Servis  and  Jackson,  and — well, 
don't  be  an  ass! r  And  Syddington  had 
shaken  his  head  and  answered  righteously, 
"  I  can't  do  that,  Tom." 

And  now  he  had  done  it! 

He  clenched  his  hands  under  the  table  and 
hated  himself  with  an  intensity  that  hurt. 
Gardiner  and  the  trainer  talked  on.  The 
clock  on  the  mantel  ticked  monotonously. 

It  was  not  as  if  Lane  would  make  a  poor 
captain.  On  the  contrary,  Syddington  knew 
that  he  would  prove  a  good  one.  That  the 
captain  did  not  altogether  like  him,  Lane 
knew.  He  had  said  a  few  days  before — it 
had  never  been  meant  for  Syddington 's  ears, 
but  nevertheless  had  reached  them — "  I'll 
never  get  into  the  St.  Eustace  game  until 


"NO  HOLDING"  101 

every  other  back  is  in  the  hospital.  Sydding- 
ton ?s  no  fool!  "  And  now  Syddington  hated 
Lane  more  than  ever  because  he  had  rightly 
judged  him  capable  of  dishonesty. 

And  Lane  would  know,  and  Gardiner  and 
Beck  and  Carter;  and  the  fellows  would  sus- 
pect. But — and  that  was  the  worst  of  all — 
he  himself  could  never  forget.  The  clock 
struck  the  half -hour,  and  Gardiner  looked  up. 

"  Half  after  nine!  This  won't  do.  We 
must  get  to  bed.  Don't  bother  about  to-mor- 
row, Syddington.  Get  your  mind  off.  the 
game  and  go  to  sleep.  It'll  be  all  right." 

Syddington  rose  and  took  up  his  overcoat. 
After  he  had  struggled  slowly  into  it  he  faced 
the  others  as  if  about  to  speak,  but  instead 
walked  to  the  door  in  silence. 

"  Good  night!  "  said  Gardiner. 

"  Good  night,  Syddington!  "  echoed  Beck. 

The  boy  thought  he  could  already  detect 
a  different  tone  in  their  voices,  a  foretaste  of 
that  contempt  with  which  in  future  they  were 
to  consider  him. 

"  Good  night;  good  night,  sir!  "  he  an- 
swered, miserably.  Then,  with  the  door  open- 
ing under  his  hand,  he  turned,  his  face  pale 


102  "NO  HOLDING" 

but  resolute,  with  something  that  was  almost 
a  smile  playing  at  the  corners  of  his  mouth. 

"  Mr.  Gardiner,  I  wish  you'd  change  that 
line-up,  please." 

"  Of  course,  if  there's  anything " 

"  I'd  like  Lane  to  go  in  at  right  half 
instead  of  Servis.  Thank  you,  sir.  Good 
night!" 

When  the  door  had  closed  coach  and  trainer 
faced  each  other  smilingly. 

"  I  didn't  think  he  could  do  it,"  said  Beck. 

"  Nor  did  I,"  answered  Gardiner.  "And 
he  didn't." 

The  autumn  sunlight  had  disappeared 
slowly  from  the  field  of  battle,  and  the  first 
shadows  of  evening  grew  and  deepened  along 
the  fences.  The  second  half  of  the  game  was 
well-nigh  over,  and  the  score-board  told  the 
story  thus : 

Hillton  6          Opponents  8 

HiUton's  Ball 

3  Down        4  Yds  to  Gain 

7  Minutes  to  Play 

Over  on  the  Hillton  sections  of  the  stand 


"NO  HOLDING"  103 

the  cheering  was  hoarse  and  incessant,  and 
crimson  banners  waved  ceaselessly.  It  has 
ever  been  Hillton's  way  to  shout  loudest  un- 
der the  shadow  of  defeat. 

Hillton's  one  score  had  been  secured  in  the 
first  three  minutes  of  play.  Quick,  steady 
tackle-back  plunges  had  carried  the  ball  from 
the  center  of  the  gridiron  to  St.  Eustace's  six- 
yard  line  before  the  latter  team  had  awa- 
kened to  its  danger.  From  there  Cantrell  had 
skirted  the  Blue's  right  end  and  Hale,  the 
Hillton  full-back,  had  kicked  an  easy  goal. 

But  St.  Eustace  had  pulled  herself  to- 
gether, and  from  that  time  on  had  things  her 
own  way,  forcing  her  rival  to  abandon  offense 
and  use  every  effort  to  protect  her  constantly 
threatened  goal.  Yet  it  was  not  until  the  half 
was  almost  over  that  St.  Eustace  finally  man- 
aged to  score,  pushing  her  full-back  through 
for  a  touch-down  and  afterward  kicking  goal. 

The  second  half  had  started  with  honors 
even,  but  on  his  five-yard  line  Hale  had  failed 
miserably  at  a  kick,  and  had  been  borne  back 
for  a  safety.  And  now,  with  but  seven  min- 
utes left,  with  the  ball  on  Hillton's  fifty-yard 
line  and  four  yards  to  gain  on  the  third  down, 


104  "NO  HOLDING" 

the  Crimson  was  fighting  valiantly  against 
defeat. 

Syddington,  pale  and  panting,  measured 
the  distance  to  the  St.  Eustace  goal  with  his 
eyes  and  groaned.  If  only  Lane  or  Sanford, 
who  had  taken  Cantrell's  place,  could  be  got 
away  round  an  end!  If  only  they  could  get 
within  kicking  distance  of  that  cross-bar! 


"34^29—  96—  12!" 

Lane  was  hurdling  the  line  at  right  guard. 
Syddington  dashed  into  the  melee,  shoving, 
shouting  hoarsely.  The  blue  line  gave  and 
Lane  fell  through,  squirming,  kicking.  The 
Hillton  stand  went  wild  with  joy.  The  score- 
board  proclaimed  first  down. 

"  Get  up!  Get  up!  "  called  Syddington, 
a  sudden  note  of  hope  in  his  strained  voice. 
"  That's  the  stuff!  We  can  do  it  again! 
Hard,  fellows,  hard!  ' 

Aching,  dizzy,  but  happy,  nevertheless,  red- 
faced  and  perspiring,  Carl  Lane  dropped  the 
ball  and  trotted  back  to  his  position. 

"  Signal!  "  cried  Colton.    "  27—34—" 

Lane  crept,  crouching,  back  of  Sanford 

"—87—51" 


"NO  HOLDING"  105 

He  dashed  forward  in  the  wake  of  the  other 
half,  the  ball  thumped  against  his  stomach, 
was  clasped  firmly,  and  the  next  instant  he 
was  high  in  air.  Arms  thrust  him  back,  others 
shoved  him  forward.  For  an  instant  the  re- 
sult was  doubtful ;  then  the  St.  Eustace  play- 
ers gave,  the  straining  group  went  back,  slowly 
at  first,  then  faster.  Lane,  kicking  friend  and 
foe  impartially  in  his  efforts  to  thrust  himself 
forward,  felt  himself  falling  head  foremost. 
Some  one's  elbow  crashed  against  his  temple, 
and  for  a  moment  all  was  dark. 

When  he  came  to,  his  face  was  dripping 
from  the  sponge  and  his  head  ached  as  if  it 
would  burst;  but  the  score-board  once  more 
proclaimed  first  down,  and  the  crimson-decked 
section  of  the  grand  stand  had  gone  suddenly 
crazy.  His  name  floated  across  to  him  at  the 
end  of  a  mighty  volume  of  cheers. 

He  picked  himself  up,  shook  himself  like 
a  dog  emerging  from  water,  grinned  cheer- 
fully at  Carter,  and  sped  back  of  the  line. 
Syddington,  his  blue  eyes  sparkling  with  new- 
born hope,  thumped  him  on  the  shoulder  as 
he  passed. 

They  were  past  the  middle  of  the  field  now, 


106  "NO  HOLDING 

and  once  more  Lane  struck  the  blue-stockinged 
right  guard  for  a  gain.  St.  Eustace  was  yield- 
ing. Hillton  was  again  on  the  offensive. 
From  the  fifty  yards  to  the  thirty-two  went 
the  conquering  Crimson,  Lane,  Sanford  and 
Hale  hurdling,  plunging,  squirming  between 
tackle  and  tackle.  St.  Eustace's  center  trio 
were  weak,  battered,  almost  helpless. 

Syddington  gazed  longingly  at  the  farthest 
white  line,  now  well  in  view.  If  only  Lane 
could  skirt  the  end!  There  was  no  longer 
any  thought  of  rivalry  in  his  heart.  If  Lane 
could  make  a  touch-down  and  save  them  from 
defeat,  he  might  have  the  captaincy  and  wel- 
come. 

The  St.  Eustace  quarter  called  for  time. 
The  battered  center  and  right  guard  were 
taken  out  and  their  places  filled  with  new 
men.  The  timekeeper  approached,  watch  in 
hand. 

"  Two  minutes  more,"  he  announced. 

Syddington 's  heart  sank;  the  panting  play- 
ers reeled  before  his  eyes,  and  he  grasped  Car- 
ter's shoulder  to  steady  himself.  Only  two 
minutes!  And  success  almost  within  grasp! 
He  turned  swiftly  to  Colton. 

"  Two    minutes,    Dan!     Did    you    hear? 


"NO  HOLDING"  107 

There  isn't  time  to  work  it  down.  Try  the 
ends;  give  it  to  Lane!  We've  got  to  score, 
Dan!  '  He  thumped  his  clenched  hands 
against  his  padded  thighs  and  stared  misera- 
bly about  him.  Colton  patted  him  on  the 
back. 

"  Cheer  up,  Bob,"  he  whispered — his 
voice  was  now  such  that  he  could  only  whisper 
or  shout — "  cheer  up!  We'll  make  it.  Two 
minutes  is  time  enough  to  win  in!  '  The 
whistle  sounded  again. 

"  Eight  tackle — back!  "  cried  the  quarter. 
Carter  dropped  out  of  the  line. 

"  Signal!    16—34—58—5!" 

A  tandem  play  on  left  guard  netted  two 
yards ;  the  new  center  was  a  good  man.  Syd- 
dington's  heart  was  leaping  into  his  throat 
and  thumping  back  again  painfully.  He 
clenched  his  hands,  watched  his  man  with 
every  nerve  and  muscle  tense,  and  awaited 
the  next  signal.  Would  it  never  come? 
What  was  the  matter  with  Colton?  Did  he 
not  know  he  was  losing 

"  Sig — "  began  the  quarter;  then  his  voice 
gave  out  in  a  husky  whisper.  "  Signal!  "  he 
repeated,  hoarsely. 

"  Block  hard!  "  shouted  Syddington. 


108  "NO  HOLDING" 

"  Watch  out  for  fake!  "  shrieked  the  St. 
Eustace  captain. 

"  44—22 " 

The  Blue's  right  half  ran  back  to  join  the 
quarter  up  the  field.  Hale,  the  Crimson's  full- 
back, stood  with  outstretched  hands  on  the 
thirty-six-yard  line,  with  Lane  and  Sanford 
guarding  him.  Syddington  swung  his  arms 
and  crouched  as  if  on  edge  to  get  down  under 
the  punt,  yet  out  of  the  corners  of  his  eyes  he 
was  watching  the  St.  Eustace  left  tackle  as  a 
cat  watches  a  mouse. 

"  44^-22—11—6!  "  gasped  Colton. 

Center  passed  the  ball  back  straight  and 
clean  to  Hale,  and  the  latter  sped  it  on  at  a 
short  side  pass  to  Lane,  who  had  dropped 
back ;  Sanford  dashed  at  the  right  end  of  the 
line,  and  Lane,  the  pigskin  hugged  close  and 
his  right  arm  rigid  before  him,  fell  in  behind. 
Sanford  sent  the  St.  Eustace  end  reeling  back- 
ward, and  -Syddington  put  the  Blue's  full- 
back out  of  the  play  and  went  crashing  to  the 
ground  with  him.  Sanford  and  Lane  swept 
through  outside  of  tackle  and  sped  toward 
the  goal. 

Crimson  banners  waved  and  danced.    The 


109 

game  was  lost  or  won  in  the  next  few  seconds. 
Victory  for  Hillton,  defeat  for  her  rival,  lay 
in  the  crossing  of  those  eight  trampled  white 
lines  by  the  lad  who,  with  straining  limbs  and 
heaving  chest,  sped  on  behind  his  interfer- 
ence. 

Sanford,  lithe  and  fleet,  held  a  straight 
course  for  the  right-hand  goal-post.  Ahead, 
with  staring  eyes  and  desperate  faces,  the  St. 
Eustace  quarter  and  right  half  advanced  men- 
acingly. Behind,  pounding  footsteps  told  of 
stern  pursuit. 

Then  the  quarter-back  was  upon  them, 
face  pale  and  set,  arms  outstretched,  and  Lane 
swung  to  the  right.  Sanford's  shoulder  met 
the  foe,  and  the  two  went  to  earth  together, 
Sanford  on  top.  He  was  up  again  in  the  in- 
stant, and,  unharmed,  once  more  running 
fleetly.  But  Lane  was  ahead  now,  and  before 
him,  near  the  ten-yard  line,  the  blue-clad  half- 
back was  waiting.  The  man  ahead  stood  for 
defeat,  for  Lane  doubted  his  ability  to  get 
round  him.  Even  running  was  agony,  and 
dodging  seemed  out  of  the  question.  But  just 
as  hope  deserted  him  Sanford  came  into  sight 
beside  him. 


110  "NO  HOLDING" 

1 1  Faster !  "  he  panted.    ' l  To  the  right. ' ' 

Lane  had  no  time  to  make  his  lagging 
limbs  obey  ere  Sanf ord  and  the  foe  were  piled 
together  at  his  feet.  He  plunged  blindly  over 
the  writhing  heap,  stumbled,  fell  on  one  knee, 
staggered  up  again,  saw  the  yellowish  turf 
rising  and  sinking  before  him,  felt  his  knees 
doubling  up  beneath  him,  fell,  rolled  over 
twice,  crawled  and  wriggled  on  knees  and 
elbows  from  force  of  habit,  and  then  closed 
his  eyes,  laid  his  head  on  his  arm  and  was 
supremely  content. 

8yddington  sped  down  the  field  with  the 
roar  of  three  thousand  voices  in  his  ears,  and 
a  great,  almost  sickening  happiness  at  his 
heart. 

Hillton  had  won ! 

For  the  moment  thought  refused  to  go 
beyond  that  wonderful  fact.  His  team,  the 
boys  whom  he  had  threatened,  coaxed,  driven, 
struggled  with  for  months,  had  beaten  St. 
Eustace ! 

He  thrust  his  way  through  the  little  group 
and  dropped  to  his  knees.  Lane  opened  his 
eyes  and  for  an  instant  stared  blankly  into 
his  face.  Then  recollection  returned  and  he 


"NO  HOLDING"  111 

raised  his  head.  Above  him  rose  the  goal- 
posts. He  grinned  happily. 

"  Over,  eh,  Syddington? "  he  asked, 
weakly. 

"  Yes,  Lane,  over.    Are  you  all  right?  " 

"  Yes;  a  bit  tuckered,  that's  all.  Let  me 
up,  please." 

They  helped  him  to  his  feet,  and  he 
stretched  his  aching  muscles  cautiously.  Beck 
handed  him  his  head  harness,  and  he  turned 
and  limped  off.  The  cheering,  which  had  al- 
most subsided  for  want  of  breath,  took  on  new 
vigor,  and  he  went  up  the  field  to  the  wild 
refrain  of  "  Lane!  Lane!  Lane!  " 

Hale  kicked  goal  and  the  teams  lined  up 
for  the  kick-off  once  more.  But  when  the  ball 
had  fallen  into  the  arms  of  the  Hillton  left 
end  the  whistle  shrilled  and  the  battle  was  at 
an  end.  The  score-board  said : 

Hillton  12.        Opponents  8. 

The  crowds  were  over  the  ropes  on  the  in- 
stant, and  while  the  wearied  crimson  players 
were  hoarsely  cheering  their  defeated  rivals, 
they  were  seized  and  borne  off  to  where  the 


112  "NO  HOLDING" 

band  was  playing  Hilltonians.  Then  the 
procession  round  the  field  began.  And  when 
it  had  formed,  Carl  Lane,  left  half-back,  borne 
upon  the  shoulders  of  four  stalwart,  shriek- 
ing friends,  was  at  the  head.  And  Sydding- 
ton,  almost  at  the  end  of  the  line  of  swaying 
heroes,  saw,  and  was  more  than  content. 

"  They'll  make  him  captain  the  day  after 
to-morrow,"  he  said  to  himself,  "  and  I'm 
glad— glad!  " 

And  with  the  band  playing  as  it  had  not 
played  for  two  years,  with  every  voice  raised 
in  song,  Hillton  marched  triumphantly  back 
to  the  campus. 

It  was  the  evening  of  the  day  following 
Hillton 's  victory.  The  songs  and  cheering 
were  over,  and  the  big  bonfire  was  only  a 
mound  of  ashes.  Syddington  had  lighted  a 
fire  in  the  study  grate,  for  an  east  wind  was 
sweeping  across  the  Hudson  and  rattling  the 
casements  fiercely. 

It  was  all  over!  The  boys  had  broken 
training,  the  field  was  left  to  the  pranks  of 
the  winter  winds,  canvas  jackets  and  padded 
trousers  were  put  away,  and  the  football  sea- 


"NO  HOLDING"  113 

son  was  at  an  end.  Well,  it  had  been  a  suc- 
cessful one,  and  next  year 

His  hands  dropped  and  he  sat  upright, 
staring  blankly  before  him.  He  had  forgot- 
ten. Next  year  meant  little  to  him  now. 
Lane  had  earned  the  captaincy  twice  over. 
If  it  must  go  to  some  one  other  than  himself, 
he  was  glad  that  Carl  Lane  was  to  be  that 
person.  He  would  nominate  Lane  himself. 
He  began  to  fashion  a  little  speech  in  his 
mind;  and  when  he  was  in  the  middle  of  it, 
there  came  a  knock  at  the  door  and  Lane  en- 
tered. Syddington  stared  a  moment  in  sur- 
prise. 

"  How  are  you,  Lane?  Glad  to  see  you," 
he  said,  finally.  "  I — I  was  just  thinking 
about  you  when  you  knocked.  Sit  down, 
won't  you?  " 

"  Thanks."  Lane  tossed  his  cap  on  the 
table  and  drew  a  chair  toward  the  hearth. 
"  Cold,  isn't  it!" 

"  Yes."  Syddington  went  back  to  the 
armchair  and  wondered  what  the  visit  meant. 
Lane  had  not  the  air  of  a  casual  caller;  his 
face  was  serious  and  held  a  suggestion  of  em- 
barrassment. There  was  a  moment's  silence; 


114  "NO  HOLDING" 

then  Lane  went  on  in  a  tone  of  frank  sin- 
cerity : 

"  Look  here,  Syddington.  The  fellows 
are  talking  about  the  captaincy."  He  was 
watching  Syddington  closely.  "  And  I  find 
that  I  can  have  every  vote  but  four." 

"  I  don't  know  who  the  four  are,"  an- 
swered Syddington,  bravely,  "  but  if  I'm  one 
of  them  you  can  count  me  out.  I'm  going  to 
vote  for  you,  and  if  you'll  let  me,  I'll  put  your 
name  up." 

"  Thank  you.  I  didn't  expect  that.  I 
fancied  you'd  want  it  yourself." 

"  So  I  do.  So  does  every  fellow,  I  guess. 
But  you've  won  it,  Lane,  fair  and  square,  and 
I  don't  begrudge  it  to  you.  I'll  acknowl- 
edge that  I  did  at  first,  but  after  you  won  the 
game " 

"  You  mean  that  you  knew  before  the  game 
that  I  might  get  the  captaincy1? '  Lane's 
voice  was  full  of  wonder. 

"  Yes.    Carter  told  me." 

"  And  you  let  me  play?  " 

"  Yes,  although—"  he  faltered— "although 
I  came  near  not." 

"  I  see.    And  I  owe  you  an  apology.    I 


"NO  HOLDING"  115 

didn't  think  you'd  let  me  on,  and  I  said  so. 
I  think  it  was  a  mighty  plucky  thing  to  do, 
mighty  plucky,  Syddington,  and — and  awfully 
decent.  And  now,  look  here.  What  I  came 
here  to  say  was  just  this."  He  rose  and  took 
his  cap  from  the  table.  "  I  can  have  the 
captaincy  to-morrow,  perhaps,  but  of  course 
I'm  not  going  to  accept  it." 

"  Not  going  to— to " 

"  Would  you  take  it  if  you  were  in  my 
place  ?  If  I  had  given  you  the  chance  to  win 
the  big  game,  knowing  that  if  you  did  you'd 
get  the  captaincy;  if  you  knew  I'd  set  my 
heart  on  keeping  it;  if  I'd  slaved  all  fall  to 
turn  out  the  finest  team  Hillton's  had  in 
years;  if — if " 

"  But  that  has  nothing  to  do  with  it," 
faltered  the  other. 

"  Yes,  it  has  everything  to  do  with  it," 
said  Lane,  earnestly.  "  It's  a  matter  of  fair 
play — and  no  holding.  If  I  took  that  cap- 
taincy after  what  you've  done  I'd  detest  my- 
self." 

"  But — but  it  doesn't  seem  right." 

"  It  is,  though.  You're  a  captain  from 
head  to  heels,  and  I'm  not.  And — I  guess 


116  "NO  HOLDING" 

that 's  all. ' '  He  moved  toward  the  door.  Syd- 
dington  followed  with  pale  face. 

"  I — I  don't  know  how  I  can  thank  you, 
Lane,  honestly!  If  you  change  your 
mind " 

"  I  sha'n't.  And  as  for  thanks — I  think 
we're  quits.  Good  night! ' 

"  Good  night!'  replied  Syddington. 
"  I — "  he  faltered  and  the  color  flooded  into 
his  cheeks — "  I — I  want  to  shake  hands  with 
you,  Lane." 


CLASS  SPIRIT 

PETEK  DOE  descended  the  marble  steps  of 
the  big  dormitory  with  discouragement  writ- 
ten large  upon  his  face.  When  he  reached 
the  sidewalk  he  drew  a  blank  book  from  his 
pocket  and  studied  it  with  frowning  brows 
until  he  had  crossed  the  avenue,  and,  half- 
unconsciously,  perched  himself  on  the  top  rail 
of  the  college  fence.  Then  he  sighed  and 
returned  the  book  to  his  coat. 

Peter  had  been  canvassing  for  the  fresh- 
man crew  for  four  days.  Armitage  and  the 
rest  had  spoken  cheerfully  of  eight  hundred 
dollars  as  the  probable  result  of  his  labors. 
To-day  Peter  shook  his  head  ruefully.  The 
book  in  his  pocket  held  subscriptions  repre- 
senting only  two  hundred  and  sixty-four  dol- 
lars, of  which  nearly  half  was  "  pledged,"  a 
term  possessing  doubtful  significance.  And 
Peter  was  discouraged. 

9  117 


118  CLASS  SPIRIT 

When  Ronald  Armitage — popular,  influ- 
ential and  much  sought — had  requested  Peter 
to  join  the  squad  of  canvassers,  Peter  had  been 
secretly  much  flattered,  and  had  acquiesced 
instantly,  gladly.  For  two  whole  days  he  had 
haunted  the  dormitories,  indifferent  to  all  dis- 
courtesies. 

Peter  was  glad  to  be  of  service  to  his  class. 
He  believed  that  a  man's  first  duty  was  to 
his  college,  his  second  to  his  class,  his  third 
— well,  the  third  did  not  as  yet  trouble  him. 
He  stood  just  five  feet  six  and  one-half  inches, 
and  had  all  a  small  man's  admiration  for 
brawn  and  athleticism.  His  complexion  was 
pink  and  white,  a  fact  which  worried  him  so 
much  that  in  summer  he  spent  precious  hours 
lying  with  his  face  upturned  to  the  sun  in  the 
hope  that  he  would  tan.  But  he  never  did; 
he  simply  got  very  red  and  the  skin  peeled 
off  his  nose. 

Peter's  crowning  glory  was  his  hair,  which 
was  of  the  color  of  red  gold.  It  was  very 
beautiful  hair  from  an  artistic  point  of  view, 
but  it  did  not  please  Peter.  At  preparatory 
school  it  had  won  him  the  name  of  "  Little 
Goldie,"  a  title  which  still  clung  to  him  among 


CLASS  SPIRIT  119 

his  acquaintances.  He  was  good  at  studies, 
and  was  visibly  impressed  with  the  serious- 
ness of  existence. 

After  a  while  Peter  slipped  from  the 
fence.  He  was  eighteen  years  old,  and  at 
eighteen  discouragement  is  a  matter  of  a  mo- 
ment. Peter  set  his  face  toward  Haworth 
Hall  and  Vance  Morris,  resolved  to  play  his 
last  card.  Vance  Morris  was  one  of  the  rich- 
est men  in  college,  and  by  far  the  wealthiest 
in  the  freshman  class. 

Peter  had  gone  to  school  with  him  at  St. 
Matthew's,  but  their  acquaintance  was  only 
of  the  nodding  kind.  Armitage  had  told 
Peter  that  Morris  was  "  good  for  a  hundred 
at  least."  Fortune  had  apparently  played 
into  the  collector's  hands  at  the  very  begin- 
ning of  his  canvassing,  for,  crossing  the  yard 
in  the  morning  he  had  encountered  Morris, 
and  had,  not  without  a  struggle  with  his  diffi- 
dence, stopped  him  and  asked  for  a  subscrip- 
tion. 

"  We,  that  is,  Armitage  and  the  others, 
you  know,  thought  that  about  one  hundred 
dollars  would  be — er — enough,"  he  had  an- 
nounced. Whereupon  Morris,  who  was 


120  CLASS  SPIRIT 

plainly  in  a  hurry  to  reach  the  square,  had 
grinned  and  replied: 

"  Really?  That's  very  modest  of  them, 
isn't  it?  Don't  you  think  they'd  rather  have 
a  thousand?  " 

The  tone  had  made  Peter  feel  a  bit  uncom- 
fortable, but  he  had  managed  to  give  audible 
expression  to  the  belief  that  a  hundred  would 
do  very  nicely ;  upon  which  Morris  had  again 
grinned  down  upon  him  from  his  six  feet  two 
inches,  and  had  started  away. 

But  Peter  had  trotted  after  him.  "  Then 
we — then  I  may  look  for  one  hundred,  Mor- 
ris?" 

"  You  may,"  the  other  had  answered. 
"  Oh,  yes,  you  may  look  for  it.  There's  my 
car." 

It  was  a  hard  race  to  the  square,  but  Peter 
sprinted  desperately  and  swung  himself  up 
on  the  rear  platform  a  second  after  Morris. 

"  You — you  promise?  "  gasped  Peter. 

"  Oh,  yes,  confound  you!  Get  off  or  you'll 
break  your  neck! ': 

Peter  did  not  break  his  neck,  but  he  af- 
forded much  amusement  to  a  group  of  stu- 
dents by  rolling  riotously  over  the  street  for 


CLASS  SPIRIT  121 

several  yards.  To-day,  as  he  skirted  the  yard 
toward  Morris's  room,  he  recalled  that  hard- 
bought  promise  and  was  comforted.  Another 
hundred  would  bring  his  list  up  to  the  sum 
of  three  hundred  and  sixty-four  dollars,  far 
removed  from  the  fabulous  amount  predicted 
by  Armitage,  but,  after  the  ill  success  of  the 
past  four  days,  something  over  which  to  re- 
joice. During  the  bitterest  moments  of  his 
laboring,  Peter  had  comforted  his  soul  with 
thoughts  of  that  one  hundred  dollars. 

Peter  found  Morris  alone,  lying  at  ease  in 
a  big,  hospitable  armchair,  and  in  good  humor. 

"  Hello !  r  Morris  held  forth  a  big,  brown 
hand.  "  Glad  to  see  you.  Sit  down." 

Peter  made  known  the  object  of  his  visit, 
and  finally  Morris  yawned  and  stretched  a 
hand  toward  his  desk. 

"  All  right;  toss  me  my  check-book." 

Peter  eagerly  brought  book  and  pen,  ink 
and  blotter,  and  the  big  freshman,  using  the 
arm  of  the  chair  for  support,  scrawled  illegi- 
ble characters.  Then  he  tore  off  the  little 
strip  of  pale-green  paper  and  handed  it  to 
Peter. 

"  That's  the  best  I  can  do  for  you." 


122  CLASS  SPIRIT 

He  yawned  again  and  closed  Ms  eyes. 
Peter  opened  his.  "  But — but  this — this  is 
for  only  ten  dollars!  ': 

"  You're  good  at  figures,"  muttered  Mor- 
ris, sleepily. 

Peter  stared  at  him  in  silence  while  the 
brass-dialed  clock  ticked  twenty  times.  This, 
then,  was  the  realization  of  his  magnificent 
hopes ! 

A  paltry  ten  dollars  where  he  had  looked 
for  a  hundred!  What  would  Armitage  and 
the  others  say?  What  would  they  think  of 
him*?  Peter's  voice  trembled  in  shrill,  indig- 
nant protest: 

"  This  isn't  fair,  Morris!  It  isn't  honest! 
It  isn't — isn't  decent!  Why,  you  promised  a 
hundred,  and  I — we  all  counted  on  it ;  and  now 
— now  you  give  me  this  measly  little  ten! ' 

Morris  swung  slowly  round  and  stared  in 
bewilderment. 

"  Well!  "  he  muttered,  in  awestruck  tones. 

"  You  ought  to  do  more  than  this  for  the 
crew! '  Peter  went  on,  waving  the  check 
wildly  in  air.  "  You  can  afford  to  give  what 
you  promised,  and — and  by  jiminy,  you've  got 
to!  " 


CLASS  SPIRIT  123 

"  Got  to!  "  growled  the  other.  He  drew 
himself  from  the  chair  until  he  towered  above 
Peter  like  a  step-ladder  above  a  footstool.  He 
put  his  hands  in  the  pockets  of  his  jacket  and 
looked  down  in  frowning  amusement.  "  Got 
to!  "  he  repeated. 

Peter's  face  blanched  from  pale  to  the 
perfect  whiteness  of  newly  fallen  snow,  but  he 
held  his  ground.  His  voice  broke,  but  he  an- 
swered : 

"  Yes." 

Morris  laughed  and  slapped  Peter  on  the 
shoulder. 

"  Good  for  you!  But  look  here,  take  that 
check  and  get  out.  It  isn't  your  funeral,  you 
know.  And  besides,  ten  dollars  isn't  to  be 
sneezed  at.  If  every  fellow  in  the  class  gave 
ten  dollars " 

"  But   you   know   every   fellow   can't! ' 
broke  in  Peter.    "  You  know  lots  of  them 
can't  afford  to  give  anything!    But  you  can, 
Morris ;  you  can  afford  to  give  what  you  prom- 
ised— more  than  that." 

"  Oh,  leave  off!  "  said  Morris.  "  Run 
along  with  your  check,  like  a  good  little 
boy." 


124  CLASS  SPIRIT 

Peter  hesitated ;  then  he  folded  the  slip  of 
paper  and  placed  it  in  his  pocket.  Taking 
the  pen,  he  dipped  it  into  the  ink  and  wrote 
a  receipt.  Then  he  faced  Morris  again. 

"  Yes,  I'll  take  this  on  account.  But  IVe 
got  to  have  ninety  more,"  he  said,  doggedly. 
"  And  I'm  going  to  have  it.  I'm  going  to 
keep  at  it  until  I  get  it.  You've  got  to  do 
what  is  right,  Morris!  ' 

"  You're  like  what's-his-name's  raven," 
sighed  the  other.  "  But  I'll  tell  you  what 
I'll  do.  When  you  get  a  hundred  dollars  out 
of  me  for  the  crew,  I'll — I'll  give  you  another 
fifty! '  He  laughed  uproariously. 

Peter  strode  to  the  door,  and  when  he 
reached  it  turned  and  faced  Morris  impres- 
sively. 

"  Remember  your  promise!  r 

The  door  closed  sternly  behind  him.  Mor- 
ris dropped  into  the  armchair  and  laughed 
until  the  tears  came.  That  was  on  Thurs- 
day. 

The  next  day  Peter  returned.  Morris's 
study  was  filled  with  students.  Morris  was 
courteous  to  a  fault,  but  Peter  refused  to  be 
placated. 


CLASS  SPIRIT  125 

"  Can  you  let  me  have  that  ninety  dollars 
for  the  freshman  crew  to-day?  "  he  asked. 
The  crowd  grinned.  Morris  shook  his  head 
and  looked  devastated  with  grief. 

"  I  regret  that  I  can  not ;  not  to-day.  Per- 
haps next  fall — or  a  year  from  yesterday, 
now " 

When  the  door  was  closed  between  him  and 
the  laughing  enemy,  Peter  turned  and  shook 
a  small,  tightly  clenched  fist.  "  Wait!  "  he 
whispered,  hoarsely. 

That  was  on  Friday. 

Returning  across  the  yard  from  chapel  the 
next  morning,  Peter  encountered  Wyeth,  Mor- 
ris's  roommate.  He  carried  a  valise,  and 
Peter  knew  that  he  was  going  home  over  Sun- 
day. 

"  Beg  pardon,"  said  Peter,  "  but  can  you 
tell  me  where  I  can  find  Morris?  " 

Wyeth  hesitated.  Then  he  laughed  and 
played  traitor.  He  jerked  his  head  in  the 
direction  of  Ha  worth,  and  scuttled  for  the 
car.  Peter's  heart  leaped  as  he  hurried 
across  the  campus.  When  he  reached  the 
dormitory  he  crossed  the  courtyard  and  sprang 
up  the  stairs  two  at  a  time.  The  outer  door 


126  CLASS  SPIRIT 

was  ajar.  On  the  inner  he  knocked  boldly. 
There  was  no  response.  He  knocked  again, 
then  entered  the  study.  The  room  was  de- 
serted. The  sunlight  shone  in  brightly 
through  one  window,  where  the  curtain  was 
drawn  back.  Peter  investigated  the  bedroom 
to  the  left.  It  was  empty.  He  crossed  to  the 
opposite  door.  Within  lay  Morris  on  a  gor- 
geous brass  bedstead,  his  big  chest  rising  and 
falling  in  mighty  respirations,  his  half-opened 
mouth  emitting  sounds  resembling  the  subter- 
ranean roar  of  an  idle  geyser.  One  arm  lay 
straight  beside  him ;  the  other  crossed  his  body, 
clutching  the  embroidered  quilt. 

The  clock  in  the  next  room  ticked  on, 
slowly,  monotonously,  while  Morris  slept  and 
Peter  evolved  an  idea,  an  idea  so  grand,  so 
desperate,  that  his  flaming  locks  stirred  un- 
easily upon  his  scalp  and  his  breath  came  in 
gasps.  Then  he  sighed  as  if  from  his  very 
shoes.  His  mind  was  made  up! 

He  crept  into  the  study  and  locked  the  hall 
door,  dropping  the  key  into  his  pocket.  On 
the  wall  by  the  fireplace  hung  a  monstrous 
Mexican  hat,  three  pairs  of  spurs,  a  quirt,  and, 
gracefully  encircling  these,  a  long,  braided 


CLASS  SPIRIT  127 

rawhide  lariat.  With  the  aid  of  a  chair  Peter 
took  the  lariat  from  its  place  and  crept  noise- 
lessly back  to  the  bedroom.  The  giant  still 
slept.  With  thumping  heart  Peter  set  to 
work. 

For  the  next  ten  minutes  he  worked  like  a 
beaver — or  a  burglar.  He  made  eight  trips 
under  the  bed.  At  seven  minutes  past  nine 
by  the  brass-dialed  clock  the  last  knot  was 
tied,  and  Peter,  trembling,  breathless  but  tri- 
umphant, viewed  his  work  with  satisfaction. 
His  enemy  was  delivered  into  his  hands ! 

He  returned  to  the  study.  He  had  no 
right,  he  told  himself,  to  disturb  Morris's 
slumber ;  he  must  wait  until  the  sleeper  woke 
of  his  own  accord.  The  hands  of  the  clock 
crept  round  toward  ten.  Peter  recollected 
that  he  was  missing  an  English  lecture,  and 
would  undoubtedly  be  kept  from  German. 
His  regret,  however,  was  but  passing. 

He  took  up  a  magazine,  but  had  turned 
only  two  leaves  when  there  reached  him  a 
sound  like  the  spouting  of  a  leviathan.  He 
drew  his  knees  together  and  shivered.  The 
giant  was  waking!  Then  the  bed  creaked 
alarmingly  and  Peter  crept  to  the  door.  At 


128  CLASS  SPIRIT 

the  same  instant  Morris  opened  his  eyes, 
yawned,  blinked,  yawned  again,  tried  to  stretch 
his  arms,  and  stared. 

"Hello,  Goldie!  That  you?  What  in 
thunder " 

He  raised  his  head  as  far  as  circumstances 
allowed  and  saw  himself,  like  Gulliver,  en- 
meshed in  a  network  of  thongs.  Amazement 
gave  way  to  understanding,  understanding  to 
appreciation,  appreciation  to  laughter.  The 
bed  shook.  Peter  gained  courage  and  en- 
tered. 

"  Oh,  Goldie,"  cried  the  giant,  "  you'll  be 
the  death  of  me  yet,  I  know  you  will!  ' 

Peter  waited  in  silence. 

"  I  didn't  think  you  were  such  a  joker, 
Goldie,  honest,  I  never  did!  " 

"  I'm  glad  I've  amused  you,"  replied 
Peter,  with  immense  dignity.  "  I  assure  you 
I  had  no  idea  of  a  joke." 

"  No  idea  of  a  joke!  "  said  Morris,  vainly 
striving  to  wipe  his  streaming  eyes  on  the  pil- 
low-slip by  rolling  his  head.  "  Then  what  do 
you  call  this?  " 

"  Business." 

"Business?    Oh,  well,  call  it  what  you 


CLASS  SPIRIT  129 

like;  it's  good,  mighty  good.  To  think  that 
you  managed  to  hog-tie  me  like  this  without 
waking  me  up!  It's — it's —  By  the  way, 
what  time  is  it?  ' 

"  Just  ten  o'clock." 

"  Great  Scott !  You  don't  mean  it  ?  Here, 
untie  these  knots  and  let  me  up.  I  was  going 
to  be  in  town  at  eleven." 

Peter  shook  his  head.  Morris  stared. 
The  truth  dawned. 

"  You  don't  mean — "  he  began,  incredu- 
lously. Peter  nodded. 

"  Well,  I'll  le  jiggered!  " 

He  lay  and  stared  in  amazement.  Peter 
stared  uncompromisingly  back.  The  study 
clock  ticked  unnaturally  loud.  Peter  was 
pale  and  Morris  was  of  a  redness  that  verged 
on  purple.  The  storm  broke  suddenly. 

"  Why,  you  little  red-headed,  snub-nosed 
idiot!  "  bellowed  Morris.  "  When  I  get  up 
I'll  smash  you  into  slivers!  I'll " 

He  strove  mightily  to  wrest  himself  from 
the  clutches  of  the  encircling  lariat.  He 
heaved,  strained,  twisted,  writhed;  but  raw- 
hide is  uncompromising  to  a  degree.  At  the 
end  of  one  strenuous  minute  he  subsided,  pant- 


130  CLASS  SPIRIT 

ing,  perspiring,  glaring  like  a  trapped  lion. 
Peter  sat  down  on  the  edge  of  the  bed. 

"  I  don't  want  you  to  think,"  he  an- 
nounced, "  that  I  have  taken  this  course  will- 
ingly ;  you — you  have  driven  me  to  it.  I  gave 
you  full  warning." 

Morris  roared  loudly,  inarticulately.  Peter 
waited  politely,  then  continued,  "  I  gave  you 
fair  warning.  I  told  you  I  had  to  have  the 
money.  I  regret  putting  you  to  this — this 
inconvenience,  and " 

For  a  space  the  bed  rocked  like  a  scow  in 
a  squall. 

"And  assure  you  that  as  soon  as  you  do 
your  duty  to  the  freshman  crew  and  to  your- 
self 111  let  you  up." 

"  Duty!  "  frothed  Morris. 

Peter  interlaced  his  fingers  round  one  knee 
and  settled  himself  comfortably  against  the 
foot-rail.  He  observed  the  captive  gravely, 
dispassionately,  almost  indulgently,  as  a  just 
parent  might  view  a  disobedient  child  to  whom 
punishment  is  being  meted  out.  Then  he  be- 
gan to  talk.  He  pointed  out  to  Morris  that 
a  college  man's  duty  does  not  end  with  him- 
self; that  he  should  consider  the  good  of  the 


T3 
0) 

1 


CLASS  SPIRIT  131 

university  and  his  class,  and  stand  ready  and 
eager  to  support  the  honor  of  each  to  the  best 
of  his  ability ;  that  he  should  be  willing  to  sac- 
rifice his  personal  pleasure  to  that  end.  Class 
spirit,  said  Peter,  was  one  of  the  most  beauti- 
ful things  about  college  life. 

Peter  talked  leisurely,  eloquently,  even 
convincingly.  Having  established  —  to  his 
own  satisfaction,  at  least — the  claim  that  the 
class  body  possesses  on  its  members,  he  passed 
to  the  subject  of  the  benefits  of  athletics. 
When  he  had  exhausted  that,  he  indicated  the 
self-evident  fact  that  athletics  can  prosper 
only  with  the  support  of  the  students.  Mor- 
ris by  this  time  had  raged  himself  dry  of  ex- 
pletives, and  was  a  silent,  if  unenthusiastic, 
auditor. 

Peter  was  encouraged,  and  his  eloquence 
increased.  The  freshman  class,  he  declared, 
was  in  many  ways  the  most  important  of  all. 
Its  contests  on  track,  field  and  river  were 
watched  with  interest  second  only  to  that  given 
to  the  struggles  of  the  varsity  teams  and 
crews.  The  class  that  attained  honor  in  its 
freshman  year  established  a  stable  basis  for 
future  glory.  Those  whose  privilege  it  was 


132  CLASS  SPIRIT 

to  make  possible  that  honor,  either  by  labor 
or  by  financial  support,  should  deem  them- 
selves fortunate. 

Morris  was  now  groaning  impotently. 
Peter  brushed  a  stray  wisp  of  red-gold  hair 
from  his  brow  and  went  on,  his  eyes  transfix- 
ing his  victim.  There  were  many  in  the  class, 
he  said,  who  could  afford  to  contribute  but  lit- 
tle to  the  cause.  There  were  others  so  for- 
tunate as  to  be  in  position  to  give  generously. 
It  was  the  duty,  the  privilege  of  every  fellow 
to  give  according  to  his  means.  In  the  case 
of  Morris 

The  clock  chimed  the  half -hour.  Morris 
gave  a  deep  sigh  and  yielded. 

"  Goldie,  for  heaven's  sake  cut  it  out!  " 
he  begged.  "  Let  me  up  and  I'll  write  you 
a  check  for  fifty  dollars." 

"  Ninety,"  corrected  Peter,  firmly. 

"  Well,  ninety." 

Peter  rose  and  untied  several  knots.  The 
result  was  not  quite  what  Morris  had  expected. 
He  found  only  his  right  arm  free. 

"  Where's  your  check-book? ':  asked 
Peter. 

"  In  the  desk.  Aren't  you  going  to  let  me 
up?" 


CLASS  SPIRIT  133 

The  only  response  was  the  sound  of  pen  on 
paper.  When  Peter  reappeared  he  placed  the 
book  before  his  captive  and  put  the  pen  into 
his  hand.  "  After  you've  signed,"  he  said. 

Morris  grumbled,  but  with  some  difficulty 
affixed  his  signature  to  the  check  for  ninety 
dollars.  Peter  tore  it  off  and  once  more  pre- 
sented the  book.  Morris  stared.  "  What's 
this?  "  he  demanded. 

"  Another  one  for  fifty,"  answered  Peter, 
quietly.  "  Remember  your  promise." 

"  My  promise?  "  cried  Morris. 

"  Certainly.  When  I  got  one  hundred 
from  you  for  the  crew  you  were  to  give  me 
fifty  more.  Have  you  enough  ink?  ' 

Morris  glowered,  glancing  from  Peter's 
inexorable  countenance  to  the  open  check- 
book. Then  he  grinned  craftily  and  signed. 

"  Now  you've  got  to  untie  me,"  he  said. 

Peter  folded  the  two  slips  carefully  and 
placed  them  in  his  pocket.  Then  he  wrote  a 
receipt  for  one  hundred  and  forty  dollars, 
Morris  watching  him  uneasily. 

"  Thank  you!  "  said  Peter,  laying  down 
the  receipt.  ' '  I  am  certain  that  you'll  be  glad 

in  the  end  that  you  were  able  to  do  so  much 
10 


134  CLASS  SPIRIT 

for  the  crew.  I  am  now  going  over  to  the 
bank"  —  Morris  writhed  —  "  to  get  these 
cashed.  As  soon  as  possible  I  '11  return  and  set 
you  free." 

For  a  moment  Morris  fought  against  fate. 
Then  he  capitulated. 

"  Hold  on,  Goldie!  I  know  when  I'm 
beaten.  I  give  you  my  word  I  won't  stop 
those  if  you'll  let  me  up  now.  What's  more, 
I  won't  lay  a  hand  on  you,  honor  bright!  ' 

Peter  set  about  untying  the  knots ;  it  was  a 
long  task. 

"  Had  breakfast?  "  asked  Morris,  pres- 
ently. 

Peter  had  not.    He  had  quite  forgotten  it. 

"  Well,"  said  Morris,  "  wait  until  I  get 
my  clothes  on  and  we'll  go  over  to  Brimm's 
and  have  some." 

'  *  All  right, ' '  stammered  Peter.  He  flushed 
with  pleasure  and  embarrassment. 

"  But  what  I  can't  understand,"  said  Mor- 
ris, a  little  later,  stretching  his  cramped  arms 
above  his  head,  "  what  I  can't  understand  is 
why  you  want  to  go  to  all  this  bother  about 
crew  money.  It  isn't  your  funeral." 

Peter  Doe  paused  in  the  labor  of  undoing 


CLASS  SPIRIT  135 

a  particularly  obstinate  knot  that  confined 
Morris's  chest,  and  stared  at  the  conquered 
giant  in  real  surprise. 

"  Why,  class  spirit,  of  course!  "  he  said. 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  HERO 

THE  Hero  sat  in  the  window-seat,  and 
nursed  his  knee  and  frowned.  He  was  rather 
young  to  be  a  hero,  he  lacked  a  month  of  being 
twenty;  he  looked  eighteen.  He  had  a  round 
face,  with  a  smooth,  clear  skin,  over  which 
spring  suns  had  spread  an  even  coat  of  tan 
that  was  wonderfully  becoming.  His  eyes 
were  blue,  and  his  hair  was  as  near  yellow 
as  hair  ever  is.  For  the  rest,  he  was  of  me- 
dium height,  slim,  and  well-built.  His  name 
was  James  Gill  Eobinson,  Jr.  Throughout 
college  he  was  known  as  "  Rob  ";  on  the  base- 
ball diamond,  the  players,  according  him  the 
respect  due  a  superior,  called  him  "  Cap." 
His  father,  with  the  privilege  of  an  extended 
acquaintance,  called  him  "  Jimmie." 

The  father  leaned  back  in  a  dark-green 
Morris  chair,  one  gray-gaitered  foot  swinging 
and  his  right  thumb  reposing  between  the  sec- 
ond and  third  buttons  of  his  white  vest.  This 

136 


THEFATHEROFAHERO  137 

was  a  habit  with  the  thumb,  and  meant  that 
Mr.  James  Gill  Robinson,  Sr.,  was  speaking 
of  weighty  matters,  and  with  authority.  The 
father  was  well  this  side  of  fifty  and,  like  his 
son,  looked  younger  than  he  was,  for  which 
an  admirable  complexion  was  to  be  thanked. 
He  wore  side-whiskers,  and  the  brows  above 
the  sharp  blue  eyes  were  heavy  and  lent  em- 
phasis to  the  aggressive  character  of  the  lower 
part  of  his  face.  But  if  he  was  aggressive  he 
was  also  fair-minded,  and  if  he  was  obstinate 
he  was  kind-hearted  as  well ;  and  none  of  these 
are  bad  qualities  in  a  lawyer.  And  of  course 
he  was  smart,  too ;  as  the  father  of  James  Gill 
Robinson,  Jr.,  he  couldn't  have  been  anything 
else. 

Through  the  open  window  the  length  of 
the  Yard  was  visible,  intensely  green  and 
attractively  cool.  Fellows  with  straw  hats 
adorned  with  fresh  new  bands  of  all  colors 
and  combinations  of  colors,  fellows  flannel- 
trousered  and  vestless,  lounged  on  the  grass 
or  intersected  the  verdant,  tree-shaded  oblong, 
bearing  tennis  racquets  or  baseball  bats.  It 
was  mid-June,  warm,  clear,  and  an  ideal  Sat- 
urday. 


138  THEFATHEROFAHERO 

The  Hero  turned  from  a  brief  survey  of 
the  outside  world  and  faced  his  father  again, 
listening  respectfully  to  the  latter 's  remarks, 
but  quite  evidently  taking  exception  to  the 
gist  of  them.  At  length  he  was  moved  to  de- 
fense. 

"  But  look  here,  dad,  seems  to  me  the  show- 
ing I  made  last  year  proves  that  I  haven't 
neglected  study." 

"  That's  not  the  point,  sir.  I'll  acknowl- 
edge that  you — ah — did  uncommonly  well  last 
year.  I  was  proud  of  you.  We  all  were. 
And  I  take  it  for  granted  that  you  will  do 
equally  well,  if  not  better,  this  year.  I  expect 
it.  I  won't  have  anything  else,  sir!  But  you 
don't  gather  my  meaning.  This  is  an  old  sub- 
ject of  controversy  between  us,  Jimmie,  and 
it  does  seem  to  me  that  by  this  time  you  should 
have  come  to  an  understanding  of  the  position 
I  take.  But  you  haven't;  that's  clear,  sir, 
and  so  I'll  state  it  once  more." 

He  paused,  and  glanced  at  a  massive  gold 
watch. 

"  It  is  twelve  minutes  after  two;  I'm  not 
detaining  you?  "  he  asked,  with  a  broad  sug- 
gestion of  sarcasm. 


THEFATHEROFAHERO  139 

"  No,  sir,  I  have  ten  minutes  yet,"  an- 
swered the  Hero. 

"  Ah,  thank  you.  Well,  now — "  Mr. 
Robinson  drew  his  eyebrows  together  while 
he  silently  marshaled  his  arguments.  Then 
— "  I  have  never,"  he  said,  "  opposed  athletic 
sports  in  moderation.  On  the  contrary,  I 
think  them  —  ah  —  beneficial.  Mind  you, 
though,  I  say  in  moderation,  distinctly  '  in 
moderation!  '  In  fact,  in  my  own  college  days 
I  gained  some  reputation  as  an  athlete  my- 
self." 

The  Hero  suppressed  a  smile.  His  fath- 
er's reputation  had  been  gained  as  short-stop 
on  a  senior  class  nine  that,  with  the  aid  of 
pistols,  old  muskets,  and  brass  bands,  had  de- 
feated, by  a  score  of  27  to  16,  a  sophomore 
team,  his  father  having  made  three  home  runs 
by  knocking  the  ball  into  a  neighboring  back 
yard.  The  Hero  had  heard  the  history  of  that 
game  many  times. 

"  But  you,  sir,"  continued  Mr.  Robinson, 
severely,  "  you,  sir,  are  overdoing  it.  You 
are  allowing  athletics  to  occupy  too  much  of 
your  time  and  thought.  I  take  to-day  to  be 
an  average  one?  " 


140  THE  FATHER  OF  A  HERO 

"  Hardly,  sir,"  answered  the  Hero. 
"  Saturday  is  always  busier  than  week-days, 
and  to-day  we  have  one  of  our  big  games." 

"  I  am  glad  to  hear  it,  very  glad.  I 
reached  here  at  eleven  o'clock,  and  you 
dragged  me  out  to  the  field  while  you  prac- 
tised batting.  At  twelve  you  had  a  recitation. 
At  one  you  took  me  to  the  training  table,  where 
I  sat  among  a  large  number  of  very — ah — 
frivolous  young  men  who  constantly  talked 
of  things  I  do  not,  and  do  not  care  to  under- 
stand. You  have  now  kindly  allowed  me  a 
half-hour  of  your  society.  In  a  minute  or 
two  you  will  tear  off  to  the  field  again,  to  be 
there,  so  you  tell  me,  until  half  past  five.  Now, 
sir,  I  ask  you,  is  what  I  have  described  an 
equable  adjustment  of  study  and  athletics, 
sir?" 

"  I'm  very  sorry,  dad,"  replied  the  Hero, 
earnestly.  "  If  I'd  known  you  were  coming 
to-day  I  could  have  fixed  things  a  little  differ- 
ently. But  as  it  was,  I  couldn't  very  well  give 
you  much  time.  I  wish  you'd  come  out  to  the 
game,  sir.  It's  going  to  be  a  thundering  good 
one,  I  think.  Princeton  is  after  our  scalps." 

' '  No,  Jimmie,  I  refuse  to  lend  countenance 


THEFATHEROFAHERO  141 

to  the  proceedings.  You  are  overdoing  it,  sir, 
overdoing  it  vastly!  Why,  confound  it,  sir, 
who  are  you  here  at  Harvard  ?  What  do  I  see 
in  the  morning  paper?  *  Robinson  is  confi- 
dent.7 i  Plucky  captain  and  first-baseman  of 
the  Harvard  nine  looks  for  a  victory  over  the 
Tigers.'  That's  the  sort  of  stuff  I  read,  sir! 
A  whole  column  of  it!  That's  who  you  are, 
sir;  you're  just  the  baseball  captain;  you're 
not  James  Robinson,  Jr.,  not  for  a  minute! 
And  the  papers  are  full  of  silly  talk  about  you, 
and  refer  to  you  as  i  Rob.'  It's  disgraceful, 
if  nothing  else !  ' 

"  Well,  dad,  I  don't  like  that  sort  of  noto- 
riety any  better  than  you  do,  but  I  don't  think 
it's  fair  to  blame  me  for  it.  When  you  win 
a  big  case  at  home  it's  just  the  same,  sir;  the 
papers  even  print  your  picture  sometimes, 
and  that's  more  than  they  do  with  mine,  be- 
cause they  can't  get  it." 

His  father  glared  silently.  It  was  too  true 
to  bear  contradiction.  But  he  wasn't  one  to 
back  down  any  further  than  was  absolutely 
necessary. 

"  Maybe,  sir,  maybe.  But  let  me  inform 
you  that  winning  an  important  case  in  the 


142  THE  FATHER  OF  A  HERO 

courts  is  decidedly  different  from  winning  a 
game  of  baseball  before  a  lot  of  shouting,  yell- 
ing idiots  with  tin  horns  and  flags!  Eh1? 
What?" 

"  Well,  I  don't  altogether  agree  with  you 
there,  dad.  In  either  case  it's  a  matter  of 
using  your  brain  and  doing  your  level  best  and 
keeping  your  wits  about  you.  The  results 
may  not  be  on  a  par  as  to  importance,  sir, 
although — "  he  smiled  slightly — "  maybe  it 
depends  some  on  the  point  of  view.  I  tell  you 
what,  sir,"  he  went  on,  "  you  come  out  to  the 
Princeton  game  this  afternoon  and  if,  when 
it's  over  with,  you  say  that  trying  to  win  a 
big  game  of  college  baseball  isn't  worth  doing, 
why,  I'll  give  up  the  captaincy  and  have  noth- 
ing more  to  do  with  such  things  next  year! 
What  do  you  say,  sir?  r 

"  I  refuse  to  enter  into  any  such  agree- 
ment, sir.  Moreover,  I  have  no  intention  of 
sitting  on  a  plank  in  the  hot  sun  and  watching 
a  lot  of  idiots  run  around  the  bases.  No,  sir, 
if  you've  got  to  take  part  in  that  game,  as  I 
suspect  you  have,  you  go  ahead  and  I'll  look 
after  myself.  Only  I  must  have  at  least  one 
undisturbed  hour  with  you  before  my  train 
goes." 


THEFATHEROFAHERO  143 

"  Certainly,  dad;  I'll  be  with  you  all  the 
evening.  I  hope  you '11  be  comfortable.  You'll 
find  the  library  at  the  Union  very  pleasant  if 
you  want  to  read.  I  will  be  back  here  at  about 
half  after  five.  I  do  wish,  though,  you'd  come 
out,  sir." 

"  You've  heard  me  on  that  subject,  Jim- 
mie,"  replied  Mr.  Kobinson,  severely.  "  Nat- 
urally, you — ah — have  my  wishes  for  success, 
but  I  must  decline  to  make  myself  miserable 
all  the  afternoon." 

After  the  Hero  had  gone,  Mr.  Robinson, 
with  much  grumbling,  strove  to  make  himself 
comfortable  with  a  book.  But  he  had  looked 
upon  his  journey  to  Cambridge  as  something 
in  the  way  of  a  holiday,  and  sitting  in  a  Morris 
chair  didn't  conform  to  his  idea  of  the  correct 
way  of  spending  it.  The  Yard  looked  in- 
viting, and  so  he  took  the  volume  and  went  out 
under  the  trees.  But  he  didn't  read.  Instead 
he  leaned  the  back  of  his  immaculate  gray  coat 
against  a  tree-trunk  and  fell  to  thinking. 
From  where  he  sat  he  could  see,  at  a  distance, 
the  window  of  the  room  that  he  had  occupied 
during  his  last  two  years  in  the  Law  School. 
That  window  suggested  memories. 


144  THE  FATHER  OF  A  HERO 

Presently  he  heard  a  voice  near  by.  A  fel- 
low passing  along  in  front  of  Matthews  was 
hailing  another. 

"  Aren't  you  going  over  to  the  game?  "  he 
asked. 

' '  Sure.    What  time  is  it  ?  " 

"  Ten  of  three.  Better  come  along  now. 
I'll  wait  for  you." 

A  moment  later  the  other  emerged  from 
the  doorway. 

"  How  are  you  betting?  "  he  asked. 

"  Even  that  we  win." 

"  Think  so?  Princeton's  got  a  wonder- 
ful young  nine,  they  say." 

"  So  have  we.  '  Rob  '  says  we're  going  to 
win,  and  what  he  says  goes,  my  boy." 

"  Yes,  he  knows  his  business  all  right." 

"Well,  I  guess!  He's  the  best  captain 
Harvard's  had  for  years  and  years,  and  he's 
as  level-headed  as  they  make  them.  All 
ready?  " 

They  went  off  in  the  direction  of  the 
Square.  Mr.  Robinson  watched  them  and 
wondered  what  they  would  say  if  they  knew 
"  Rob's  '•  father  had  overheard  them.  He 
rather  wished  they  could  have  known  who  he 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  HERO  145 

was.  Then  lie  frowned  impatiently  as  he 
realized  that  in  a  moment  of  weakness  he  had 
coveted  glory  in  the  role  of  "  Rob's  "  father. 
But  he  was  glad  he  had  overheard  that  con- 
versation. Even  if  Jimmie  was  paying  alto- 
gether too  much  attention  to  baseball  and  too 
little  to  the  graver  features  of  college  life,  still 
he  was  glad  that  Jimmie  was  a  good  captain. 
He  was — yes,  he  was  proud  of  that. 

It  was  very  cool  and  restful  there  on  the 
grass,  with  the  whispering  of  the  little  breeze 
in  the  leaves  above  him,  and  he  laid  the  book 
carefully  aside,  folded  his  hands,  and  closed 
his  eyes.  The  Yard  was  deserted  now  save 
for  the  squirrels  and  the  birds,  and  so  for  quite 
an  hour  none  disturbed  Mr.  Robinson's  slum- 
ber. Once  his  hat  fell  off,  and  after  a  sleepy 
attempt  to  find  it  he  let  it  go.  His  trousers 
gradually  parted  company  with  his  gaiters, 
exposing  a  length  of  thin,  black-clad  ankle. 
Altogether  he  presented  a  most  undignified 
spectacle,  and  a  squirrel  who  ran  down  the 
tree-trunk  and  surveyed  him  from  a  position 
a  foot  or  two  above  his  head  chattered  his  dis- 
approbation. Perhaps  it  was  this  that  woke 
Mr.  Robinson  up. 


146  THE  FATHER  OF  A  HERO 

He  yawned,  arranged  his  trousers,  recov- 
ered his  hat,  and  looked  at  his  watch.  It  was 
just  four  o'clock.  He  felt  rather  stiff,  but 
the  nap  had  rested  him,  and  so  he  returned  the 
book  to  the  room  with  the  idea  of  taking  a 
walk.  Swinging  his  gold-headed  cane  jaun- 
tily, he  passed  through  the  Square  and  made 
his  way  toward  the  river.  The  breezes  would 
be  refreshing,  he  told  himself.  But  long  be- 
fore he  reached  the  bridge  disturbing  sounds 
came  to  him,  borne  on  the  little  west  wind  that 
blew  in  his  face: 

"  Ha-a-ar-vard !  Ha-a-ar-vard !  Ha-a- 
ar-vard!  ' 

He  crossed  the  bridge,  left  the  river  behind 
and  went  on.  Now  from  the  right,  around  the 
corner  of  the  Locker  Building,  came  wild,  con- 
fused cries: 

"  That's  pitching,  old  man;  that's  pitch- 
ing! '  "  Now,  once  more;  make  him  hit  it!  ' 
"  Put  it  over;  you  can  do  it!  '  "  Hai,  hai, 
hai!  Now  you're  off!  Down  with  his  arm! 
On  your  toes,  on  your  toes!  '  "  Look  out! 
Twenty  minutes,  Mr.  Umpire! '  " He's  out 
at  first!  " 

Then  the  cheering  began  again. 


THE  FATHER  OF  A  HERO  147 

Mr.  Robinson  frowned,  but  kept  on  his 
way.  He  was  back  of  the  stands  now.  The 
scene  was  hidden  from  the  street  by  a  long 
strip  of  canvas.  He  looked  about  him;  the 
road  was  deserted  hereabouts.  He  stooped 
and  strove  to  look  under  the  canvas,  but  he 
saw  only  a  pair  of  sturdy,  red-stockinged  legs. 
The  cheering  became  wild  and  incoherent,  and 
was  punctuated  with  hand-clapping  and  the 
stamping  of  many  feet  on  the  boards.  Mr. 
Robinson  went  on  at  a  faster  gait,  something 
of  excitement  appearing  in  his  face.  At  the 
gate  a  few  loiterers  stood  about.  Mr.  Robin- 
son approached  one  of  them  and  asked  with 
elaborate  indifference: 

"  What— ah— what  is  the  score?  " 

"  Seven  to  six  in  favor  of  Princeton. 
They've  knocked  Miller  out  of  the  box." 

"  Indeed?  "  Mr.  Robinson  glanced  at  his 
watch.  "  I — ah — suppose  the  game  is  about 
over?  " 

"  Last  of  the  sixth.  There,  that's  three 
out.  This  is  the  seventh  now."  From  the 
left  somewhere  came  cheers  for  Princeton. 

"  Thank  you."  Mr.  Robinson  turned  and 
went  on,  followed  by  long,  inspiriting  "  Ha-a- 


148  THE  FATHER  OF  A  HERO 

ar-vards! '  But  the  scenery  was  not  attract- 
ive and  the  breeze  was  no  longer  cool.  He 
stopped,  frowned,  and  gazed  absorbedly  at  the 
sidewalk,  drawing  figures  with  the  end  of  his 
cane  in  the  gravel. 

"  It  must  be  very  close,"  he  muttered. 
Then,  after  a  moment,  * '  Jimmie  will  be  badly 
disappointed  if  they're  beaten." 

With  sudden  resolution  he  stuck  his  cane 
under  his  arm,  pulled  his  waistcoat  free  of 
wrinkles,  and  walked  quickly,  determinedly, 
back  to  the  entrance.  At  the  ticket  booth  he 
drew  a  bill  from  his  pocketbook  and,  in  the 
act  of  purchasing,  recalled  his  informant  of  a 
few  minutes  before.  He  was  still  there,  cra- 
ning his  head  and  listening. 

"  Here,  do  you  want  to  see  the  last  of 
this?  "  he  asked. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  was  the  eager  answer. 

"  Two  tickets,  please." 

Mr.  Robinson  strode  through  the  gate  fol- 
lowed by  a  freckled-faced,  rather  tattered 
youth  of  sixteen,  and  sought  a  seat. 

"  You  come  along  with  me,"  he  said  to  the 
boy.  "  I  may  want  to  know  who  some  of 
these  fellows  are." 


THEFATHEROFAHERO  149 

Seats  were  hard  to  find,  but  in  the  end  they 
obtained  them  on  a  stand  back  of  third  base. 
Mr.  Robinson  settled  his  stick  between  his 
knees  and  looked  about  him.  The  triangle  of 
stands  was  crowded  with  excited  men  and 
women;  men  in  straw  hats  and  all  sorts  of 
vivid  shirts,  women  in  cool  cotton  dresses,  with 
here  and  there  a  touch  of  crimson  ribbon. 
The  field  stretched  away  green  and  level  as  a 
carpeted  floor  to  the  river  and  the  boathouse. 
Princeton  was  at  the  bat.  Mr.  Robinson 
turned  to  his  new  acquaintance. 

"  Seven  to  six,  you  said? '  The  boy 
glanced  at  the  little  black  score-board. 

"  Yes,  sir,  that's  right.  See?  Harvard 
made  three  in  the  first  and  two  in  the  third 
and  one  in  the  fifth,  and  Princeton  made  three 
in  the  third  and  four  in  the  fifth.  That's 
when  they  didn't  do  a  thing  to  Miller.  Gee, 
I  could  hear  'em  hittin'  him  outside  there! 
I'd  like  to  been  inside  then,  wouldn't  you?  ' 

"  HTYI,  yes,"  replied  Mr.  Robinson. 

"  Say,  what  made  you  so  late?  "  asked  the 
other  with  a  suspicion  of  a  grievance  in  his 
voice.  "  Gee,  if  I'd  been  going  to  this  game 

I  bet  you  I'd  been  on  time!  " 
11 


150  THEFATHEROFAHERO 

"  I — ah — I  was  detained,"  replied  Mr. 
Robinson.  He  realized  that  the  boy  held  him 
in  some  contempt,  and  knew  that  it  would 
never  do  to  tell  the  whole  truth  about  it;  the 
other  would  simply  look  upon  him  as  a  luna- 
tic. Clearly,  too,  he  owed  his  acquaintance 
an  apology.  "  I  am  sorry  that  I  didn't  get 
here  sooner,"  he  said,  "  so  that  you  could  have 
seen — ah — more  of  the  contest." 

"  So'm  I,"  was  the  frank  response.  Then, 
11  Still,  maybe  if  you'd  come  before  you 
wouldn't  have  taken  me  in  with  you?  ' 

"  That's  true;  maybe  I  wouldn't  have — ah 
— noticed  you.  So  perhaps  it's  just  as  well, 
eh?" 

"Yep.    Hi-i-i!" 

Mr.  Robinson  gave  attention  to  the  game 
in  time  to  see  the  second  Princeton  batter 
thrown  out  at  first.  The  stands  subsided 
again,  and  the  ushers  waved  their  hats  and 
the  cheering  broke  out  afresh. 

"  Supposing  you  tell  me  who  some  of  the 
men  are,"  suggested  Mr.  Robinson. 

"  Sure  thing.  That's  Hanlon  pitching. 
He's  pretty  good,  but  he  ain't  as  good  as  Mil- 
ler, they  say.  I  guess  '  Mill '  must  have  had 


THEFATHEROFAHERO  151 

an  off  day.  And  that's  Morton  catching. 
Say,  he's  a  peach! ': 

' '  Indeed?" 

"You  bet;  a  regular  top-of-the-basket 
peacherina !  You  just  keep  your  eye  on  him. ' ' 

"  Thank  you,  I  will,"  answered  the  lis- 
tener. "  And  the  small  fellow  at  first  base?  " 

The  boy  turned  and  stared  at  him,  open- 
eyed  and  open-mouthed.  Then  he  whistled 
softly  but  with  emphasis. 

"  Say!  "  he  exclaimed,  finally,  "  where Ve 
you  been?  ' 

"  Well,  I—"  Mr.  Robinson  faltered,  and 
the  other  gave  a  grunt  of  disgust. 

"  Gee,  I  thought  everybody  knew  *  Rob  ' !  " 

«  Knew 1  " 

"  '  Rob.'  His  name's  Robinson;  they  call 
him  *  Rob  '  for  short.  He's  the  captain,  of 
course.  Didn't  you  know  that?  ' 

"  Well,  yes,  I  did,  now  that  you  mention 
it,"  answered  the  man  humbly.  "  Is — is  he 
pretty  good?  ': 

"  Pretty  good!  Why,  he's  a  star!  He's 
a  wonder!  He's — "  Words  failed  him. 
"  Say,  you  must  live  in  Chelsea!  "  he  said  at 
last. 


152  THE  FATHER  OF  A  HERO 

"  Chelsea  ?"  repeated  Mr.  Robinson. 
"  No,  I  don't  live  there." 

"  Anybody 'd  think  you  did,"  muttered 
the  boy. 

The  third  man  went  out  on  a  long  fly  to 
center  field,  and  Harvard  trotted  in  to  bat. 

"  If  Harvard  loses  this  game,"  said  the 
boy,  "  it'll  break  her  record.  She  ain't  lost 
one  this  year.  That's  Greene  going  to  bat. 
He  ain't  much  good  at  hittin';  he  generally 
strikes  out." 

Greene  sustained  his  reputation,  and  a  tall 
youth,  whom  Mr.  Robinson  was  informed  was 
Billings,  the  left-fielder,  made  a  hit  to  short- 
stop and  reached  first  by  a  bad  throw.  Har- 
vard filled  the  bases  in  that  inning  and  the 
excitement  became  intense.  A  base-hit  would 
bring  in  the  desired  two  runs.  But  the 
Princeton  pitcher  wound  himself  into  knots 
and  untangled  himself  abruptly  and  threw 
wonderful  balls,  and  the  umpire,  a  short, 
round,  little  man  with  a  deep  voice,  yelled 
"  Strike!"  "  Strikes!  "  "  Striker's  out!  " 

"  Aw,  thunder!  "  lamented  Mr.  Robinson's 
companion.  "  That's  two  gone.  Ain't  that 
mean?  " 


THEFATHEROFAHERO  153 

Mr.  Robinson,  sitting  on  the  edge  of  Ms 
seat,  clutching  his  cane  desperately  with  both 
hands,  nodded.  Over  on  the  other  stands, 
across  the  diamond,  they  were  standing  up 
and  cheering  grimly,  imploringly.  The  Har- 
vard short-stop  took  up  his  bat  and  faced 
the  pitcher.  Back  of  second  and  third  bases 
the  coaches  were  yelling  loudly: 

"  On  your  toes,  Charlie,  on  your  toes! 
Go  down  with  his  arm!  Now  you're  off! 
Whoa-a-a!  Look  out  for  second-baseman! 
All  right!  He  won't  throw  it!  Whoa-a-a!  '• 

11  Strike!  "  called  the  umpire. 

"  Aw,  gee!  "  muttered  the  boy. 

"  Now,  lively.  Watch  his  arm!  Come 
on,  come  on !  Hi,  hi,  hi!  Look  out  for  passed 
balls !  Now  you're  off!  " 

"  Strike  two,"  called  the  umpire. 

Mr.  Robinson  thumped  the  boards  with 
his  cane. 

Then  there  came  a  crack  as  the  batsman 
found  the  ball,  and  the  men  on  bases  rushed 
home.  But  the  arching  sphere  fell  softly  into 
the  left-fielder's  hands,  and  the  nines  again 
changed  places.  Mr.  Robinson  and  his  ac- 
quaintance exchanged  looks  of  disgust. 


154  THE  FATHER  OF  A  HERO 

"  Wasn't  that  rotten?"  asked  the  boy 
with  the  freckled  face. 

"  Awful!  "  answered  Mr.  Robinson. 

Nothing  happened  in  either  half  of  the 
eighth  inning,  but  the  suspense  and  excite- 
ment were  intense,  nevertheless.  Princeton 
reached  second  once,  but  that  was  the  end  of 
her  chances.  Harvard  got  her  first  man  to 
first,  but  the  succeeding  three  struck  out. 
The  cheers  were  hoarse,  incessant.  The  ush- 
ers waved  hats  and  arms  wildly.  And  Prince- 
ton went  to  bat  for  the  first  of  the  ninth. 

"  Now,  then,  fellows,  get  together!  '  Mr. 
Robinson  recognized  his  son's  voice,  cheerful, 
hopeful,  inspiriting.  The  Hero  was  trotting 
to  his  place  at  first.  "  Ginger  up,  everybody, 
and  shut  them  out!  ' 

"  All  right,  Cap!  "  "We've  got  them  on 
the  run,  Cap !  ' '  "  Lucky  ninth,  Rob !  "  The 
in-fielders  were  answering  with  the  same 
cheerful  assumption  of  confidence.  To  the 
right  of  Mr.  Robinson  a  section  of  the  stand 
was  waving  orange  and  black  streamers  and 
flags,  and  cheering  joyously.  The  Princeton 
pitcher  stepped  to  the  plate. 

But  Hanlon,  if  he  wasn't  the  equal  of  the 


THEFATHEROFAHERO  155 

deposed  Miller,  was  on  his  mettle.  The  bat- 
ter had  two  strikes  called  on  him,  and  then 
struck  at  a  deceptive  drop.  The  ball  thumped 
into  the  hands  of  Morton,  the  "  top-of-the- 
basket  peacherina." 

11  Striker's  out,"  droned  the  little  man  in 
black. 

Then  came  a  long  hit  over  short-stop's 
head  and  the  batsman  reached  first  without 
hurrying.  A  moment  later  he  had  stolen  sec- 
ond. The  next  man  sent  him  to  third,  but  was 
put  out  himself  at  first. 

"  Gee,  a  hit  will  bring  him  in,  won't 
it?  "  asked  the  boy.  "  But  there's  two  out. 
Maybe " 

The  man  at  bat  had  found  a  high  ball  and 
had  sent  it  whizzing  down  the  base-line,  eight 
feet  or  more  in  the  air.  The  man  on  third 
was  speeding  home,  the  runner  racing  for 
first.  The  Hero  threw  his  arms  over  his  head 
and  jumped  lightly  off  his  toes.  The  next 
instant  he  was  rolling  head  over  heels,  but  one 
hand  was  held  triumphantly  aloft  and  in  it 
was  the  ball. 

"  He's  out!  "  called  the  umpire. 

The  panting,  weary  crimson-legged  play- 


156  THEFATHEROFAHERO 

ers  trotted  in  amid  a  salvo  of  applause.  Mr. 
Eobinson  was  beaming  proudly,  delightedly 
across  at  the  Hero.  The  boy  was  shouting 
absurdly  and  beating  the  planks  with  his 
heels. 

"  Gee,  if  they  can  only  make  two  runs 
they'll  have  'em  beaten!  "  he  cried,  excitedly. 

"  Yes,"  said  Mr.  Robinson;  "  do  you  think 
they  can?  " 

"  I  dunno.  Maybe  they  can.  Say,  didn't 
I  tell  you  that '  Rob  '  was  a  corker  ?  Did  you 
see  that  catch?  That  wasn't  anything  for 
him;  I've  seen  him  do  better  stunts  than  thatj 
that  was  just  ordinary,  that  was!  ': 

Now  had  come  Harvard's  last  chance. 
After  the  one  round  of  cheering  that  greeted 
the  first  man  at  the  plate,  silence  fell.  The 
man  was  Morton,  the  catcher,  and  he  struck 
out  miserably,  and  turned  away  toward  the 
bench  with  wobegone  countenance.  The 
Harvard  second-baseman  took  his  place. 
With  two  strikes  and  two  balls  called  on  him, 
he  hit  out  a  straight  grounder  between  second- 
baseman  and  short-stop  and  reached  first  by 
a  good  margin.  The  next  man  struck  at  the 
first  ball  and  it  passed  the  catcher.  The  man 


THEFATHEROFAHERO  157 

on  first  took  second.  Then  the  Princeton 
pitcher  steadied  down. 

"  Strike  two,"  said  the  umpire. 

Then  the  batter  hit  at  a  low  ball  and 
popped  it  high  and  straight  over  the  base. 
The  audience  held  their  breath.  Down — down 
it  came  plump  into  the  catcher's  hands. 

"  Two  gone,"  groaned  the  boy  with  the 
freckled  face.  And  then,  "  Hi!  Here  comes 
'Rob'!" 

The  Hero  was  picking  out  a  bat,  carefully, 
calmly,  and  the  stands  were  shouting  "  Rob- 
inson! Robinson!  Robinson!  "  hoarsely, 
entreatingly.  The  Hero  settled  his  cap  firm- 
ly, wiped  his  hands  in  the  dust  and  gripped 
his  bat.  Then  he  stood,  blue-eyed,  yellow- 
haired,  smiling,  confronting  the  Princeton 
pitcher.  The  latter  doubled  and  unbent. 

"  Ball,"  droned  the  umpire.  The  Hero 
tapped  the  base  and  smiled  pleasantly.  The 
pitcher  studied  him  thoughtfully,  while  the 
catcher  knelt  and  beat  his  mitten  in  signal  for 
a  "  drop."  Again  the  pitcher  went  through 
his  evolutions,  again  the  ball  sped  toward  the 
plate.  Then  there  was  a  loud,  sharp  crack! 

High   and   far    sailed   the   sphere.    The 


158  THE  FATHER  OF  A  HERO 

Hero's  crimson  stockings  twinkled  through 
the  dust  as  he  turned  first  and  raced  for  sec- 
ond. The  man  who  had  been  on  second 
crossed  the  plate.  The  stands  were  sloping 
banks  of  swaying,  shrieking  humanity.  Far 
out  in  the  green  field  beyond  the  center's  posi- 
tion the  ball  fell,  a  good  ten  feet  beyond  the 
frantic  pursuers.  Then  the  center-fielder 
seized  it  and  hurled  it  in  to  short-stop  with  a 
hard,  swift  throw  that  made  the  runner's 
chances  of  reaching  the  plate  look  dim.  But 
he  was  past  third  and  still  running  like  a 
twenty-yard  sprinter,  while  along  the  line 
beside  him  ran  and  leaped  and  shouted  two 
coaches : 

"  Come  on,  Cap!  Come  on!  You  can  do 
it,  Cap!  You  can  do  it!  Run  hard!  Hard!  ' 

Short-stop  swung,  and  threw  straight  and 
sure  toward  where  the  catcher,  with  out- 
stretched arms  and  eager  white  face,  awaited 
it  above  the  dust-hidden  plate.  Ball  and  run- 
ner sped  goalward.  The  stands  were  bedlams 
of  confused  shouts  and  cries.  Mr.  Robinson 
was  on  his  feet  with  the  rest,  his  hat  in  one 
hand,  his  gold-mounted  cane  in  the  other.  He 
had  been  shrieking  with  the  rest,  stamping 


THEFATHEROFAHERO  159 

with  them,  waving  with  them.  His  face  was 
red  and  his  eyes  wide  with  excitement.  And 
now  he  measured  the  distance  from  ball  to 
plate,  from  plate  to  runner,  with  darting 
glances,  and  raised  his  voice  in  one  final,  tri- 
umphant effort : 

"  Slide,  Jimmie!    Slide!  ' 

Above  the  riot  of  sound  arose  that  despair- 
ing command.  The  ball  thumped  against  the 
catcher's  mit  and  his  arm  swung  swiftly  out- 
ward and  downward.  But  it  didn't  hit  the 
runner.  He  was  sprawling  face  down  above 
the  plate  in  a  cloud  of  brown  dust.  .Tim-mi ft 
had  slid. 

"  Safe!  "  cried  the  umpire. 

Two  hours  later  the  Hero  and  his  father 
were  at  dinner  in  a  Boston  hotel.  Mr.  Rob- 
inson dropped  a  crumb  into  his  empty  soup- 
plate  and  smiled  across  the  table  in  the  man- 
ner of  one  well  pleased  with  the  world. 

"  I  haven't  seen  a  game  of  baseball  like 
that,  Jimmie,"  he  said,  "  since  we  won  the 
class  championship  back  in  '73."  He  looked 
reminiscent  for  a  moment;  then  asked  sud- 


160  THEFATHEROFAHERO 

denly:  "  By  the  way,  didn't  you  say  they'd 
make  you  captain  again  next  year?  ' 

"  They  will,  if  111  take  it,  sir." 

"  If  you'll  take  it!  What's  to  prevent 
your  taking  it?  Don't  be  a  fool,  Jimmie! '; 

The  Hero  applied  his  napkin  to  his  lips  to 
hide  a  smile. 

"  Very  well,  sir,"  he  replied,  gravely,  "  I 
won't." 


THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2d 

SATTEKLEE  2o  tossed  his  arms  over  his 
head  and  opened  his  eyes.  It  was  of  no  use. 
As  a  much  smaller  boy — he  was  now  thirteen 
years  of  age — his  mother,  on  putting  him  to 
bed,  had  always  counseled  "  Now  shut  your 
eyes  and  go  to  sleep."  And  it  had  worked 
to  a  charm;  so  infallibly  that  Satterlee  2d 
had  unconsciously  accepted  it  as  a  law  of 
nature  that  in  order  to  go  to  sleep  one  had 
only  to  close  one's  eyes.  To-night,  after  lying 
with  lids  forced  so  tightly  together  that  they 
ached,  he  gave  up  the  struggle.  Something 
was  plainly  wrong. 

He  snuggled  the  comforter  up  under  his 
nose  and  stared  into  the  darkness.  A  thin, 
faint  pencil  of  light  was  discernible  straight 
ahead  and  rather  high  up.  After  a  moment 
of  thought  he  knew  that  it  stole  in  at  the  top 
of  the  door  from  the  hall,  where  an  oil  lamp 
nickered  all  night  on  a  bracket.  From  his 

161 


162    THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D 

right  came  faint  gurgles,  as  regular  as  clock- 
work. That  was  Sears,  his  room-mate,  fast 
clasped  in  the  arms  of  Morpheus.  Satterlee 
2d  envied  Sears. 

Back  of  him  the  darkness  was  less  intense 
for  a  little  space.  The  shade  at  the  window 
was  not  quite  all  the  way  down  and  a  faint 
gray  light  crept  in  from  a  cloudy  winter  sky. 
Satterlee  2d  wondered  what  time  it  was. 
Sears  had  blown  out  the  light  promptly  at 
ten  o'clock,  and  that  seemed  whole  hours  ago. 
It  must  be  very  late,  and  still  he  was  not 
sleepy;  on  the  contrary,  he  couldn't  remember 
having  ever  been  wider  awake  in  his  life. 
His  thoughts  flew  from  one  thing  to  another 
bewilderingly. 

It  had  been  very  sudden,  his  change  from 
home  life  to  boarding-school.  His  mother 
had  not  been  satisfied  with  his  progress  at  the 
grammar-school,  and  when  brother  Donald, 
Satterlee  2d's  senior  by  two  years,  had  re- 
turned from  Dr.  Willard's  school  for  Christ- 
mas vacation,  healthy  looking  and  as  full  of 
spirits  as  a  young  colt,  the  decision  was  made ; 
Thomas  should  go  back  to  school  with  Donald. 

Thomas  was  amazed- and  delighted.    Un- 


THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE2D    163 

til  that  moment  he  had  conscientiously  treated 
all  mention  of  Willard's  with  scathing  con- 
tempt, a  course  absolutely  necessary,  since 
Don  was  in  the  habit  of  chanting  its  praises 
at  all  times  and  in  all  places  in  a  most  annoy- 
ingly  superior  manner.  But  as  soon  as  he 
learned  that  he  too  was  to  become  a  pupil  at 
Willard's  Tom  swore  instant  allegiance,  for 
the  first  time  hearkening  eagerly  to  Don's 
tales  of  the  greatness  of  the  School,  and  vow- 
ing to  make  the  name  of  Thomas  Polk  Sat- 
terlee  one  to  be  honored  and  revered  by  future 
generations  of  Willardians.  He  would  do 
mighty  deeds  in  school  hall  and  campus — more 
especially  campus — and  would  win  wonderful 
popularity.  And  then  he  bade  a  moist-eyed 
farewell  to  home  and  parents,  and,  in  care  of 
his  travel-hardened  brother,  set  forth  for 
boarding-school,  filled  with  pleasurable  excite- 
ment and  fired  with  patriotism  and  grand  re- 
solves. 

One  thing  alone  had  worried  Satterlee  2d ; 
the  school  catalogue,  which  he  had  studied  dili- 
gently from  end  to  end,  stated  very  distinctly 
— in  fact,  in  italics — that  hazing  was  strictly 
forbidden  and  unknown  at  the  institution. 


164    THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE2D 

Brother  Don,  on  the  other  hand,  told  scalp- 
stirring  tales  of  midnight  visitations  to  new 
boys  by  groups  of  ghostly  inquisitors.  These 
two  authorities,  the  only  ones  at  Tom's  com- 
mand, were  sadly  at  variance.  But  experi- 
ence had  taught  Satterlee  2d  that  printed  text 
was  on  the  whole  more  apt  to  be  truthful  than 
Brother  Don;  and  he  gained  comfort  accord- 
ingly. 

He  had  made  his  debut  at  Willard's  in 
proper  style,  had  been  formally  introduced  to 
many  other  young  gentlemen  of  ages  varying 
from  twelve  to  eighteen  years,  had  shaken 
hands  humbly  with  Burtis,  the  school  leader, 
and  had  officially  become  Satterlee  2d. 

He  and  his  new  roommate,  Sears,  had  be- 
come firm  friends  in  the  short  period  of  three 
hours,  and,  realizing  Sears 's  good- will  toward 
him,  he  had  listened  to  that  youth's  enigmatic 
warning,  delivered  just  as  the  light  went  out, 
with  respect. 

"  Say,  if  anything  happens  to-night,  don't 
wake  me;  I  don't  want  to  know  anything 
about  it." 

Satterlee  2d's  troubled  questioning  elic- 
ited only  sleepy  and  very  unsatisfactory  an- 


THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D    165 

swers,  and  he  had  laid  awake,  hour  after  hour, 
or  so  it  seemed,  with  ears  strained  for  suspi- 
cious sounds.  But  none  had  come,  and  now 
— he  yawned  and  turned  over  on  the  pillow — 
now  he  thought  that  he  could  go  to  sleep  at 
last.  He  closed  his  eyes. 

Then  he  opened  them  again.  It  seemed 
hours  later,  but  was  in  fact  scarcely  five  min- 
utes. A  bright,  unhallowed  light  shone  on 
his  face.  White-draped  figures,  silent  and 
terrible,  were  about  him. 

"  Ghosts!"  thought  Satterlee  2d. 

But  just  as  he  had  gathered  sufficient 
breath  for  a  satisfactory  scream  of  terror,  and 
just  as  some  one  had  forced  the  corner  of  a 
pillow  into  his  mouth,  recollection  of  Brother 
Donald's  tales  came  to  him  and  his  fears  sub- 
sided. With  the  supernatural  aspect  re- 
moved, the  affair  resolved  into  an  unpleasant 
but  not  alarming  adventure.  It  is  idle  to  re- 
late in  detail  the  subsequent  proceedings. 
Blindfolded  and  attired  only  in  a  bath-robe, 
hastily  thrown  over  his  nightshirt,  he  was 
conducted  along  corridors  and  down  long 
flights  of  stairs,  over  strange,  uneven  expanses 

of  frozen  ground,  skirting  frightful  abysses 
12 


166   THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D 

and  facing  dangers  which,  had  he  believed  the 
asseverations  of  his  captors,  were  the  most 
awful  ever  mortal  braved.  Despite  his  in- 
credulity he  was  glad  when  the  end  of  the 
journey  was  reached.  He  was  led  stumbling 
down  three  very  chilly  stone  steps  and  brought 
to  a  halt.  The  atmosphere  was  now  slightly 
warmer,  and  this  at  least  was  something  to  be 
thankful  for. 

"  Neophyte/'  said  a  deep  voice  which 
sounded  suspiciously  like  Brother  Don's, 
"  you  have  passed  unscathed  through  the  Vale 
of  Death.  The  first  period  of  your  initiation 
into  the  Order  of  the  Grinning  Skull  is  accom- 
plished. We  leave  you  now  to  dwell  alone, 
until  dawn  gilds  the  peak  of  yonder  mountain, 
among  the  Spirits  of  the  Under  World. 
Should  you  survive  this,  the  most  terrible  or- 
deal of  all,  you  will  be  one  of  us  and  will  be 
admitted  into  the  secrets  and  counsels  of  our 
Order.  Farewell,  perhaps  forever!  " 

The  hands  that  held  him  drew  away,  he 
heard  the  sounds  of  retreating  footsteps,  of  a 
closing  door  and  a  creaking  bolt.  He  re- 
mained motionless,  his  heart  beating  against 
his  ribs.  He  wanted  to  cry  out,  to  bring  them 


THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE2D    167 

back,  but  pride  was  still  stronger  than  fear. 
The  silence  and  damp  odor  of  the  place  were 
uncanny.  He  thought  of  tombs  and  things, 
and  shuddered.  Then  summoning  back  his 
waning  courage,  he  tore  the  bandage  from  his 
eyes.  Alas,  he  was  still  in  complete  darkness. 

Satterlee  2d's  reading  had  taught  him 
that  the  proper  thing  to  do  in  such  situations 
was  to  explore.  So  he  put  forth  his  hands 
and  stepped  gingerly  forward.  He  brought 
up  against  a  cold,  reeking  stone  wall.  He 
followed  it,  found  a  corner,  turned  at  right 
angles,  soon  found  another  corner,  and  then 
worked  back,  at  length  coming  in  contact  with 
the  steps  and  a  heavy  door.  All  efforts  to 
move  the  latter  were  vain.  The  floor  was  of 
wood  and  sounded  hollow.  The  place  had  a 
clammy,  unwholesome  feeling,  and  now  was 
beginning  to  strike  him  as  decidedly  wanting 
in  warmth  and  comfort. 

Suddenly  his  subsiding  fear  gave  way  be- 
fore a  rush  of  anger  and  he  stamped  a  slip- 
pered foot.  A  nice  trick  to  play  on  a  fellow, 
he  declared  aloud;  he'd  tell  Don  what  he 
thought  of  it  in  the  morning,  and  he'd  punch 
somebody's  head,  see  if  he  didn't!  In  his 


168   THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D 

wrath  he  stepped  impetuously  forward  and 
gave  a  shriek  of  horror.  He  was  up  to  his 
knees  in  icy  water. 

He  clambered  out  and  sat  shivering  on  the 
planks,  while  the  knowledge  came  to  him  that 
his  prison  was  nothing  else  than  the  spring- 
house,  which  Don  had  exhibited  to  him  that 
afternoon  during  a  tour  of  sight-seeing.  A 
narrow  staging  surrounded  a  large  pool,  he 
remembered;  in  his  journey  about  the  place 
he  had  kept  in  touch  with  the  walls,  and  so 
had  escaped  a  wetting,  until  his  impetuous 
stride  had  plumped  him  into  it.  Cold,  wet, 
angry  and  miserable,  he  crept  to  the  farther^ 
corner  of  the  house,  to  get  as  far  as  possible  flj 
from  the  drafts  that  eddied  in  under  the 
door,  and  placing  his  back  against  the  wall  '• 
and  wrapping  his  wet  garments  about  his 
knees,  closed  his  eyes  and  tried  to  go  to  sleep. 
He  told  himself  that  sleep  was  out  of  the  ques- 
tion. But  he  was  mistaken,  for  presently  his 
head  fell  over  on  one  side  and  he  slumbered. 

When  he  awoke  with  a  start,  aroused  by 
the  sound  of  the  opening  of  the  door,  he  stared 
blankly  into  the  gloom  and  wondered  for  a 
moment  where  he  was.  An  oblong  of  gray  at 


THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D    169 

the  end  of  the  spring-house  drew  his  gaze. 
Two  forms  took  shape,  stumbled  down  the 
steps,  and  were  lost  in  the  darkness.  Then 
the  door  was  closed  again  save  for  a  narrow 
crevice.  His  first  thought  that  rescue  was 
at  hand  was  instantly  dispelled.  Some  one 
coughed  painfully,  and  then: 

"  Phew,  I'm  nigh  dead  with  cold,"  said  a 
weak,  husky  voice.  "  Two  miles  from  the 
village  you  said  it  was,  didn't  yer?  I'll  bet 
it's  five,  all  right." 

"  Well,  you're  here  now,  ain't  yer?  "  re- 
sponded a  deeper  voice,  impatiently.  "  So 
shut  up.  You  make  me  tired,  always  kicking 
about  something.  What  do  you  expect,  any 
way?  Think  the  old  codger's  going  to  drive 
into  town  and  hand  the  money  over  to  yer"? 
If  you  want  anything  you've  got  to  work 
for  it." 

The  two  had  sprawled  themselves  out  on 
the  floor  to  the  left  of  the  doorway.  Satterlee 
considered.  Perhaps  if  he  made  his  presence 
known,  the  men,  who  were  evidently  tramps, 
would  let  him  depart  unmolested.  On  the 
other  hand,  maybe  they  would  be  angry  and 
cut  his  throat  promptly  and  very  expertly, 


170    THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D 

and  drop  his  body  into  the  pool.  He  shivered 
and  clenched  his  fists,  resolved  to  perish 
bravely.  He  wished  he  were  home  in  his  own 
bed ;  he  wished — then  he  stopped  wishing  and 
listened. 

"  How  long  we  got  to  stay  here?  "  asked 
the  first  tramp  wearily. 

"  We'll  wait  till  'bout  twelve.  The  doc- 
tor's a  great  hand  at  staying  up  late,  I 
hear." 

"  What  time  do  you  say  it  is  now?  ' 

"  Half  past  eleven,  I  guess." 

"  Phew!  '  The  other  whistled  lugubri- 
ously. "  I'll  be  dead  with  the  cold  by  that 
time,  Joe."  He  went  off  into  a  paroxysm  of 
coughing  that  made  Satterlee  2d,  in  spite  of 
his  terror,  pity  him,  but  which  only  brought 
from  his  companion  an  angry  command  to 
make  less  noise. 

"  All  right,"  was  the  husky  response, 
"  give  me  some  'baccy,  Joe?  There's  more'n 
time  fer  a  bit  of  a  smoke."  There  followed 
sounds  from  across  the  darkness  and  Satterlee 
2d  surmised  that  each  was  filling  his  pipe. 
Then  a  match  flared  suddenly  and  lighted  up 
the  scene.  The  boy  shut  his  eyes  and  held  his 


THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2  D  171 

breath.  Then  he  opened  them  the  least  crack 
and  peered  across.  The  men  were  sitting  just 
to  the  left  of  the  doorway,  diagonally  across 
from  him.  Between  them  lay  the  black  ob- 
long of  water  splashed  with  orange  by  the 
flickering  match.  Satterlee  2d  wondered  if 
it  would  never  burn  out!  He  could  see  only 
a  tangled  beard,  a  glittering,  half-closed  eye, 
two  big  hands,  between  the  fingers  of  which 
the  guarded  light  shone  crimson.  The  light 
went  out  and  he  drew  a  monstrous  sigh  of  re- 
lief. The  odor  of  tobacco  floated  across  to 
him,  strong  and  pungent. 

The  two  smoked  silently  for  a  moment. 
Satterlee  2d  stared  wide-eyed  into  the  dark- 
ness and  tried  to  discover  a  way  out  of  the 
difficulty.  From  what  little  conversation  he 
had  overheard  he  judged  that  the  tramps 
meditated  some  crime  against  Doctor  Willard, 
probably  robbery.  If  he  entertained  any 
doubt  upon  the  subject  it  was  quickly  dis- 
pelled. The  tramp  with  the  cough  was  talk- 
ing. 

"  Who's  goin'  inside,  Joe?  " 

"  You;  you're  smallest  an'  lightest  an'  can 
get  through  the  window  easy.  I'll  stand 


172    THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D 

watch.  If  I  whistle,  make  a  run  for  it 
an'  try  to  get  into  the  woods  across  the 
road." 

"  Ye-es,  but  I  don't  know  the  lay  of  the 
room  like  you  do,  Joe." 

"Well,  I'm  goin'  to  tell  yer,  ain't  I? 
When  yer  get  through  the  window,  turn  to 
yer  right  an'  keep  along  the  wall;  there  ain't 
nothin'  there  but  bookcases;  when  yer  get  to 
the  corner  there's  a  round  table;  look  out  fer 
that.  Keep  along  the  wall  again;  there's 
more  book-shelves,  about  six  or  eight  feet  of 
'em.  Then  you  comes  to  a  high  case  with  a 
lid  that  lets  down  an'  makes  a  desk  and  swing- 
in'  glass  doors  above  it;  you  know  the  sort  o' 
thing  I  mean,  eh?  ' 

"  Old-fashion'  secretary,"  said  the  other, 
evidently  proud  of  his  knowledge. 

"  Correct!  Well,  you  want  to  let  down 
the  lid " 

"  Locked?" 

"  Likely  it  is;  use  ther  little  jimmy;  the 
money's  in  the  lower  drawer  on  the  left  side. 
I  don't  know  what  all's  there;  better  clean  the 
drawer  out,  see?  ' 

Satterlee  2d  was  thinking  hard,  his  heart 


THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE2D    173 

in  his  throat  and  his  pulse  hammering.  He 
must  get  out  of  the  spring-house  somehow  and 
warn  the  doctor.  But  how?  The  men  were 
practically  between  him  and  the  door.  To 
make  a  dash  for  liberty  would  surely  result 
disastrously;  if  they  caught  him — Satterlee 
2d's  teeth  chattered!  If  he  waited  until  they 
went  out  and  then  followed  he  might  be  able 
to  arouse  the  doctor  or  scare  the  burglars 
away,  if  they  didn't  bolt  the  door  again  on  the 
outside,  and  so  make  him  once  more  a  pris- 
oner. The  only  plan  that  seemed  at  all  feasi- 
ble was  to  creep  inch  by  inch  to  the  doorway 
and  then  make  a  dash  for  freedom.  An  im- 
patient stir  across  the  spring-house  warned 
him  that  whatever  plan  was  to  be  tried  must 
be  attempted  speedily.  He  wriggled  softly 
out  of  his  bath-robe,  gathered  the  skirt  of  his 
nightgown  in  one  hand,  took  a  long  breath, 
and  started  forward  on  his  hands  and  knees. 
The  men  were  talking  again,  and  one  of  the 
pipes  was  sizzling  loudly. 

All  went  well  for  a  moment,  a  moment  that 
seemed  an  age,  and  he  had  reached  a  point 
half-way  to  the  door,  when  his  hand  slipped 
on  the  wet  boards  with  a  noise,  faint  but  dis- 


174   THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D 

tinct.    He  stopped  short,   his  hair   stirring 
with  fright. 

"  S — sh! '     One  of  the  men  scrambled  to 
his  feet. 

"  What's  the  matter?  "  growled  the  other. 
"  I  heard  somethin' — over  there." 
"  A  frog,  likely,  you  fool;  got  a  match?  ' 
Satterlee  2d  was  desperate.  He  was  lost 
unless  he  could  reach  the  doorway  first.  He 
started  forward  again  with  less  caution,  and 
one  knee  struck  the  floor  sharply.  A  light 
flared  out,  and  for  a  moment  he  stared  across 
the  pool  into  two  pairs  of  wide-open,  gleaming 
eyes.  Then  the  match  dropped  into  the  water 
with  a  tiny  hiss,  and  Satterlee  2d  leaped  for 
the  door.  The  streak  of  light  was  now  but 
a  scant  two  yards  distant.  Near  at  hand 
sounded  feet  on  the  planking,  and  from  the 
pool  came  a  splashing  as  one  of  the  men 
rushed  through  the  water.  Then  a  hand 
grasped  the  boy's  bare  ankle.  With  a  shriek 
he  sprang  forward,  the  grasp  was  gone,  and 
from  behind  him  as  he  fled  stumbling  up  the 
steps  came  the  sound  of  a  heavy  fall  and  a 
cry  of  triumph. 
"  I've  got  him!  " 


THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE2D    175 

"  You've  got  me,  you  fool!    Let  go!  " 

The  next  instant  Satterlee  2d  was  through 
the  doorway,  had  slammed  the  portal  behind 
him,  and  had  shot  the  big  iron  bolt  despair- 
ingly. With  closed  eyes  he  leaned  faint  and 
panting  against  the  oak  while  blow  after  blow 
was  rained  on  it  from  within  and  hoarse  oaths 
told  of  the  terror  of  the  prisoners.  But  the 
stout  door  showed  no  signs  of  yielding,  and 
Satterlee  2d  opened  his  eyes  and  looked 
about  him.  The  night  was  cloudy,  but  the 
school-buildings  were  discernible  scarce  a 
stone-throw  away. 

When  Doctor  Willard,  awakened  from 
sleep  by  the  wild  jangling  of  the  bell,  drew  his 
dressing-gown  about  him  and  looked  forth, 
it  was  with  astonishment  and  alarm  that  he 
beheld  a  white-robed  youth  pulling  excitedly 
at  the  bell-knob.  His  astonishment  was  even 
greater  when,  having  found  and  adjusted  his 
spectacles,  he  made  out  the  youth  to  be  Sat- 
terlee 2d,  who,  by  every  rule  of  common 
sense,  ought  at  that  moment  to  be  asleep  in 
the  dormitory. 

"  But — but  I  don't  understand,"  faltered 
the  doctor.  "Do  you  mean  that  you  have  a 


176   THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D 

gang  of  burglars  locked  up  in  the  spring- 
house?  " 

"  Yes,  sir;  two,  sir;  two  burglars,  sir!  ' 

*  *  Dear  me,  how  alarming  !    But  how  -  ?  '  ' 

"  Don't  you  think  we  could  get  the  police, 
sir?  " 

"  Um  —  er  —  to  be  sure.  The  police;  yes. 
Wait  where  you  are." 

The  window  closed,  and  presently  the 
tinkle  of  a  telephone  bell  sounded.  A  minute 
or  two  later  and  Satterlee  2d,  cold  and  aching, 
sat  before  the  big  stove  in  the  library,  while 
the  doctor  shook  and  punched  the  coals  into 
activity. 

"  I've  telephoned  for  the  police,"  said  the 
doctor,  gazing  perplexedly  over  his  specta- 
cles. "  And  now  I  would  like  to  know  what 
it  all  means,  my  boy." 

"  I  —  I  was  in  the  spring-house,  sir," 
began  Satterlee  2d,  "  when  I  heard  a 


nos 

11 


One  moment,"  interrupted  the  doctor. 

"  What  were  you  doing  in  the  spring-house 
at  midnight1?  " 

Satterlee  dropped  his  eyes.  He  searched 
wildly  for  an  explanation  that  would  not  in- 


THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE2D    177 

criminate  Donald  and  the  others.  Finally  he 
gave  it  up. 

"  I — I'd  rather  not  say,  if  you  please,  sir." 

"  Um,"  said  the  doctor.  "  Very  well, 
we'll  pass  over  that  for  the  present.  What 
happened  when  you  heard  a  noise?  r 

Before  Satterlee  2d  had  finished  his  story 
there  came  the  sound  of  wheels  on  the  drive- 
way without,  which  sent  the  doctor  to  the 
door.  For  a  minute  the  boy  listened  to  the 
hum  of  voices  in  the  hallway.  Then  he  com- 
menced to  nod — nod 

He  awoke  to  find  the  winter  sunlight 
streaming  through  the  windows  of  the  doc- 
tor's guest-chamber,  and  to  learn  from  the 
clock  on  the  mantel  that  it  was  long  after 
breakfast  time.  His  clothes  were  beside  him 
on  a  chair  and  he  tumbled  into  them  hurriedly, 
the  events  of  the  night  flooding  back  to  mem- 
ory. He  ate  breakfast  in  solitary  grandeur, 
his  thoughts  fixed  miserably  on  the  expla- 
nation that  must  follow.  His  indignation 
against  Donald  and  the  others  had  passed; 
he  pitied  them  greatly  for  the  punishment 
which  he  felt  certain  would  soon  be  meted  out 
to  them.  And  he  pitied  himself  because  it 


178   THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D 

was  his  lot  to  bring  that  punishment  about. 
His  visions  of  popularity  faded  into  nothing- 
ness. For  a  moment  he  thought  of  cutting  it 
all ;  of  walking  straight  from  the  dining-room 
to  the  station  and  disappearing  from  the 
scene. 

But  when  he  pushed  back  his  half -eaten 
breakfast  and  arose  to  his  feet  it  was  to  grip 
his  hands  rather  tight,  and  with  pale  cheeks 
walk,  laggingly  but  directly,  to  the  school  hall. 
Prayers  were  over,  and  the  doctor  was  rub- 
bing his  spectacles  reflectively,  preparatory  to 
addressing  the  pupils.  Satterlee  2d's  ad- 
vent created  a  wave  of  excitement,  and  all  eyes 
were  on  him  as  he  strode  to  his  seat.  The 
doctor  donned  his  glasses  and  surveyed  the 
scene. 

"  Satterlee  2d!  " 

That  youth  arose,  his  heart  thumping  sick- 
eningly. 

"  There  was  a  portion  of  your  story,"  said 
the  head  master  suavely,  "  which  you  did  not 
tell  last  night.  Kindly  explain  now,  if  you 
please,  how  you  came  to  be  in  the  spring- 
house  at  midnight." 

Satterlee  2d  looked  despairingly  at  the 


THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE2D    179 

doctor,  looked  desperately  about  the  room. 
Brother  Donald  was  scowling  blackly  at  his 
ink-well.  Burtis,  the  school  leader,  was  ob- 
serving him  gravely,  and  in  his  look  Satterlee 
2d  thought  he  read  encouragement.  The  doc- 
tor coughed  gently. 

Satterlee  2d  had  been  taught  the  enormity 
of  lying,  and  his  conscience  revolted  at  the 
task  before  him.  But  Don  and  the  others 
must  be  spared.  He  made  a  heroic  effort. 

"  Please,  sir,  I  went  to  get  a  drink." 

Depressing  silence  followed.  Satterlee 
2d's  eyes  sought  the  floor. 

"  Indeed?  ':  inquired  the  doctor,  pleas- 
antly. "  And  did  you  get  your  drink?  ' 

"  Yes,  sir."  Satterlee  2d  breathed  easier. 
After  all,  lying  wasn't  so  difficult. 

"  Ah,  and  then  why  didn't  you  return  to 
the  dormitory?  ' 

"  The — door  was  locked,  sir." 

Somebody  near  by  groaned  softly.  Sat- 
terlee 2d  wondered. 

"  On  the  inside?  "  pursued  the  doctor. 

Too  late  Satterlee  2d  saw  his  blunder. 
He  gazed  appealingly  at  the  inexorable  coun- 
tenance on  the  platform,  then, 


180   THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D 

"  No,  sir,"  he  answered  in  low  tones,  "  on 
the  outside." 

'  *  Strange, ' '  mused  the  head  master.  * '  Do 
you  know  who  locked  it?  ' 

"  No,  sir."  He  gave  a  sigh  of  relief. 
That,  at  least,  was  no  more  than  the  truth. 

"  You  may  sit  down."  Satterlee  2d  sank 
into  his  seat. 

"  Which  of  you  locked  that  door?  "  The 
doctor's  gaze  swept  the  schoolroom.  Silence 
followed.  Then  two  youths  were  on  their  feet 
simultaneously.  One  was  Burtis,  the  other 
was  Satterlee  1st.  The  doctor  turned  to  the 
former. 

"  Am  I  to  understand  that  you  had  a  hand 
in  this,  Burtis?  "  he  asked,  surprise  in  his 
voice. 

"  No,  sir.  If  you  please,  sir,  what  I  want 
to  say  is  that  the  school  as  a  whole  had  noth- 
ing to  do  with  this  hazing,  sir,  and  we — we 
don't  like  it.  And  if  those  that  had  a  hand 
in  it  don't  own  up,  sir,  I'll  give  their  names. 
That's  all,  sir." 

He  sat  down.  Young  Mr.  Sears  signified 
excited  approbation  by  clapping  his  hands 
until  he  found  the  doctor's  gaze  upon  him, 


THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D    181 

whereupon  lie  subsided  suddenly  with  very  red 
cheeks.  The  doctor  turned  to  Satterlee  1st. 

"Well,  sir?" 

Brother  Donald  shot  an  angry  glance  at 
Burtis. 

"  Burtis  needn't  talk  so  big,  sir;  he'd  bet- 
ter give  a  fellow  a  chance  before  he  threat- 
ens  " 

"  That  will  do,  my  boy;  if  you  have  any- 
thing to  say  let  me  hear  it  at  once." 

"  I — I  locked  that  door,  sir." 

"  Indeed?  And  did  you  have  any  help  in 
the  matter?" 

Brother  Donald  dropped  his  gaze  and  was 
silent.  Then,  with  much  shuffling  of  un- 
willing feet,  slowly,  one  after  another,  five 
other  boys  stood  up. 

"  Well,  Perkins?  "  asked  the  doctor. 

"  I  helped,"  said  that  youth. 

"  And  the  rest  of  you?  "  Four  subdued 
voices  answered  affirmatively.  The  doctor 
frowned  from  one  to  the  other.  Then, 

"  You  may  take  your  seats,"  he  said,  se- 
verely. 

The  six  sank  into  their  places  and  misera- 
bly awaited  judgment.  The  doctor  ran  his 

13 


182    THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D 

fingers  thoughtfully  over  the  leaves  of  the  big 
dictionary  on  the  corner  of  his  desk,  then  be- 
gan to  speak.  The  discourse  that  followed 
was  listened  to  with  flattering  attention.  It 
dealt  very  fully  with  the  evils  of  hazing  and 
seemed  to  promise  something  quite  unusual  in 
the  way  of  punishment.  Brother  Donald  had 
fully  five  minutes  of  the  discourse  all  to  him- 
self, but  appeared  not  at  all  stuck  up  because 
of  the  attention.  In  fact,  when  he  had  lis- 
tened to  all  the  doctor  had  to  say  on  the  sub- 
ject of  brotherly  conduct,  his  countenance  was 
expressive  of  shame  rather  than  conceit.  Al- 
together, it  was  quite  the  most  exhaustive 
"  wigging  "  in  the  recollection  of  the  oldest 
pupil  in  the  school,  and  therefore  it  was  with 
genuine  surprise  that  the  Doctor's  concluding 
sentences  were  heard. 

"  In  the  present  case,"  he  said,  "  I  am  in- 
clined to  be  lenient.  Unwittingly  you  have 
prevented  the  probable  loss  to  me  of  several 
hundred  dollars,  and  have  secured  the  arrest 
of  two  members  of  society  who  are — hem — 
better  placed  in  jail  than  outside.  This  does 
not  morally  exempt  you  from  blame ;  your  con- 
duct is  none  the  less  despicable ;  but,  neverthe- 


THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE2D    183 

less,  in  view  of  these  circumstances,  I  shall 
make  your  punishment  as  light  as  is  consist- 
ent. But  first  you  will  give  me  your  promise 
that  never,  so  long  as  you  are  in  my  school, 
will  you  take  part  in  or  countenance  hazing  in 
any  form,  shape  or  manner  whatsoever.  Have 
I  that  promise?  ' 

Six  voices  sounded  as  one. 

"  Very  well.  Now  I  shall  require  all  six 
of  you  to  remain  within  bounds  until  the 
Easter  vacation.  This  means  that  you  will 
not  be  privileged,  as  usual,  to  visit  the  village 
on  Wednesday  and  Saturday  afternoons. 
That  is  all.  You  will  please  carefully  remem- 
ber what  I  have  said.  We  will  now  take  up 
the  lessons. " 

A  well-defined  murmur  of  relief  passed 
over  the  room.  Then, 

"  If  you  please,  sir,"  said  a  voice,  quietly, 
from  among  the  boys. 

The  doctor  glanced  up. 

"  What  is  it,  Satterlee  2d<?  " 

"  If  you  please,  sir,  I'd  like  to  take  the 
punishment  with  the  others,  sir." 

"  Indeed?  '  The  doctor  looked  puzzled. 
"And  for  what  reason?  " 


184   THE  HAZING  OF  SATTERLEE  2D 

"  For — for  lying,  sir." 

"  For  what?" 

"  For — for  not  telling  the  truth,  sir." 

"  H— m." 

The  doctor  removed  his  spectacles  and 
polished  them  slowly,  very  slowly,  as  if  he 
were  doing  some  hard  thinking.  Then  he  re- 
placed them  and  faced  the  class. 

"  I — hem — I  will  exempt  you  from  pun- 
ishment. It  isn't  what  you  deserve,  not 
by  a  great  deal,  but — you  may  thank  Sat- 
terlee  2d." 

Satterlee  2d's  popularity  began  at  that 
moment. 


A  PAIR  OF  POACHERS 

TOM  PIERSON  strode  briskly  down  the  hill, 
fishing-rod  in  hand.  As  long  as  he  had  been 
in  sight  of  the  school  he  had  skulked  in  the 
shadow  of  the  hedges,  for  he  knew  that  Sat- 
terlee  2d  was  looking  for  him,  and  the  society 
of  that  youth  was  the  last  thing  he  desired 
at  present.  For  Satterlee  2d  possessed  the 
highly  erroneous  idea  that  the  best  way  to 
catch  trout  was  to  make  as  much  noise  as  pos- 
sible and  to  toss  sticks  and  pebbles  into  the 
brook.  And  so  Tom,  a  devout  disciple  of 
Izaak  Walton,  preferred  to  do  without  his 
chum  when  he  went  fishing. 

The  time  was  a  quarter  after  four  of  a  late 
May  afternoon.  Tom  had  tossed  the  last  book 
into  his  desk  and  slammed  the  lid  just  fifteen 
minutes  before.  From  the  school-hall  he  had 
sneaked  to  the  dormitory,  and  secured  his  rod, 
line,  and  flies.  Even  as  he  had  descended 
warily  by  means  of  the  fire-escape,  he  had 

185 


186  APAIROFPOACHERS 

heard  the  voice  of  Satterlee  2d  calling  his 
name  in  the  corridor.  He  had  reached  the 
brook  path  undetected  by  dodging  from  dor- 
mitory to  school-hall  and  from  school-hall  to 
engine-house,  and  so  to  the  protecting  shad- 
ows of  the  high  hedge  that  marked  the  western 
limit  of  the  school-grounds.  Most  of  the  other 
two  dozen  pupils  of  Willard's  were  down  on 
the  field,  busy  with  balls  and  bats.  But  no 
form  of  athletics  appealed  to  Tom  Pierson  as 
did  angling,  and  to-day,  with  the  white  clouds 
chasing  one  another  across  the  blue  sky  and 
the  alder-bordered  brook  in  sight,  he  was  al- 
most happy.  Almost,  but  not  quite ;  for  even 
at  sixteen  life  is  not  always  clear  of  trouble. 
Tom's  trouble  was  "  Old  Crusty."  If  it  were 
not  for  "  Old  Crusty,"  he  thought  gloomily, 
as  he  swung  his  pole  through  the  new  grass, 
he  would  be  quite  happy. 

"  Old  Crusty 's  ':  real  name,  you  must 
know,  was  Professor  Bailey:  he  was  one  of 
the  two  submasters;  and  as  for  being  old,  he 
was  in  truth  scarce  over  forty — a  good  ten 
years  younger  than  Doctor  Willard,  the  head 
master,  to  whom,  for  some  reason,  the  fellows 
never  thought  of  referring  as  "  Old  Willard." 


APAIROFPOACHERS  187 

Professor  Bailey  and  Tom  had  never,  from 
the  first,  got  on  at  all  well  together.  The  pro- 
fessor believed  Tom  quite  capable  of  master- 
ing mathematics  as  well  as  others  of  his  form, 
and  had  scant  patience  for  the  boy's  sorry 
performances.  Tom  believed  that  "  Old 
Crusty  "  dealt  more  severely  with  him  than 
with  the  rest — in  short,  to  use  his  own  expres- 
sion, that  the  professor  "  had  it  in  for  him." 
One  thing  is  certain :  the  more  the  submaster 
lectured  Tom  and  ridiculed  his  efforts  before 
the  class,  the  more  he  kept  him  in  after  school, 
the  less  Tom  knew  of  mathematics,  and  the 
wider  grew  the  breach  between  pupil  and 
teacher. 

In  all  other  studies  Tom  was  eminently 
successful,  and  there  is  no  doubt  but  that  with 
a  better  understanding  between  him  and  the 
submaster  the  former  would  have  made  a 
creditable  showing  in  the  science  that  was  at 
present  the  bane  of  his  life.  But,  as  it  was, 
Tom  hated  "  Old  Crusty  "  with  a  great  hatred, 
while  the  submaster  felt  for  Tom  a  large  con- 
tempt, if  not  an  absolute  aversion.  And  it 
must  be  acknowledged  that  Tom  gave  him  suf- 
ficient cause. 


188  APAIROFPOACHERS 

A  great  deal  of  this  passed  through  Tom's 
mind  as  he  descended  the  path  and  reached 
the  shelter  of  the  low-spreading  alders  that 
marked  the  course  of  the  brook.  But,  with 
the  sound  of  the  bubbling  water  in  his  ears, 
he  put  trouble  behind  him.  Laying  aside  his 
coat,  he  fitted  his  split-bamboo  rod,  and  stud- 
ied the  sky  and  the  pool  before  him.  Then  he 
chose  a  rather  worn  brown  fly,  and  cast  it 
gently  into  the  center  of  the  limpid  basin. 
Above  him  the  branches  almost  met,  and  he 
knew  from  experience  that  if  he  hooked  a 
trout  he  would  have  to  play  him  down-stream 
before  he  could  land  him.  Ten  minutes 
passed,  but,  save  for  the  inquiring  nibble  of  a 
sunfish  or  similar  small  fry,  he  found  no  en- 
couragement. The  sun  went  behind  a  large 
cloud,  and  Tom  changed  his  fly  for  a  bright 
red-and-gray  one.  But  even  that  failed  to 
entice  the  trout.  He  grew  impatient,  for  the 
school  rules  required  him  to  be  back  in  bounds 
by  half  past  five.  Presently  he  drew  in  his 
line,  donned  his  coat,  and-  made  his  way  noise- 
lessly down-stream.  When  he  had  gone  some 
ten  yards,  creeping  from  bank  to  rock  and 
from  rock  to  bank  again,  not  without  more 


A  PAIR  OF  POACHERS  189 

than  once  filling  his  scuffed  shoes  with  water, 
he  came  to  a  fence,  the  rails  of  which  reached 
straight  across  the  stream,  which  here  nar- 
rowed to  a  rocky  cascade.  On  the  trunk  of 
a  big  willow  at  one  side  there  was  a  board.  On 
the  board  was  the  legend : 

PRIVATE   PROPERTY 

TRESPASSERS    WILL    BE    PROSECUTED 
TO    THE    FULL    EXTENT    OF    THE    LAW 

Tom  winked  at  the  sign,  and  climbed  the 
fence.  He  did  it  so  nimbly  and  expeditiously 
as  to  suggest  a  certain  amount  of  experience. 
In  truth,  Tom  had  crossed  that  fence  before, 
not  once  but  several  times,  since  the  trout  had 
commenced  to  bite  that  spring.  If  it  will 
make  his  conduct  appear  any  less  heinous,  it 
may  be  said  in  his  behalf  that  he  always  gave 
a  fair  trial  to  that  part  of  the  brook  within  the 
school-grounds,  and  only  when  success  failed 
him  there  did  he  defy  the  law  and  become 
a  trespasser  on  the  estate  of  Fernwood.  It 
would  be  interesting  to  know  whether  old 


190  A  PAIR  OF  POACHERS 

Father  Walton  always  respected  "  No  tres- 
passing "  signs.  Whether  he  did  or  did  not, 
he  appears  to  have  left  as  a  heritage  to  his  fol- 
lowers a  special  code  of  morals  where  forbid- 
den property  is  concerned;  for  often  a  man 
who  will  hold  the  theft  of  an  apple  from  a 
roadside  orchard  in  utmost  horror  will  not 
hesitate  to  extract  a  fish  from  a  neighbor's 
brook  and  bear  it  off  in  complacent,  untroubled 
triumph.  If  I  have  dealt  at  undue  length 
upon  this  subject,  it  is  because,  for  the  sake  of 
my  hero,  I  wish  the  reader  to  view  such  ama- 
teur poaching  as  his  with  as  lenient  an  eye  as 
possible. 

Fernwood  held  one  widely  celebrated  pool, 
from  which,  even  when  all  of  the  other  pools 
refused  to  give  up  a  single  fish,  the  practised 
angler  could  invariably  draw  at  least  a  trio  of 
good-sized  trout.  Toward  this  ideal  spot 
Tom  Pierson,  making  his  way  very  quietly 
that  he  might  not  disturb  and  so  cause  unnec- 
essary trouble  to  a  couple  of  very  alert  gar- 
deners, directed  his  steps.  Once,  in  spite  of 
care,  his  line  became  entangled,  and  once  he 
went  to  his  knees  in  the  icy  water.  Yet  both 
these  mishaps  but  whetted  his  appetite  for  the 


APAIROFPOACHERS  191 

sport  ahead.  When  he  had  gained  a  spot  a 
dozen  yards  up-stream  from  the  big  pool,  he 
paused,  laid  aside  pole-rod  and  paraphernalia, 
and  crept  cautiously  forward  to  reconnoiter. 
If,  he  argued  very  plausibly,  discovery  was  to 
fall  to  his  lot,  at  least  it  were  better  to  be  found 
guiltless  of  fishing-tackle.  He  crouched  still 
lower,  as,  over  by  a  clump  of  dead  willows 
within  the  school  bounds,  he  espied  through 
the  trees  the  jauntily  appareled  Satterlee 
briskly  whipping  the  surface  of  the  brook  with 
unsportsmanlike  energy  and  apparent  disre- 
gard of  results.  Tom,  however,  knew  himself 
to  be  unobserved,  so  felt  no  fear  from  that 
source.  But  just  as  the  dark  waters  of  the 
pool  came  into  sight  between  the  lapping 
branches,  a  sound,  close  at  hand  and  unmis- 
takable as  to  origin,  caused  his  heart  to  sink 
with  disappointment.  There  would  be  no  fish- 
ing for  him  to-day,  for  some  one  was  already 
at  the  pool.  The  soft  click  of  a  running-reel 
came  plainly  to  his  ears. 

He  paused  motionless,  silent,  and  scowled 
darkly  in  the  direction  of  the  unseen  angler. 
Then  he  went  forward  again,  peering  under 
the  leaves.  At  least  he  would  know  who  it 


192  APAIROFPOACHERS 

was  that  had  spoiled  his  sport.  Three  steps 
— four;  then  he  suddenly  stood  upright  and 
gasped  loudly.  His  eyes  opened  until  they 
seemed  about  to  pop  out  of  his  head,  and  he 
rubbed  them  vigorously,  as  though  he  doubted 
their  evidence.  After  a  moment  he  again 
stooped,  this  time  sinking  almost  to  his  knees, 
and  never  heeding  the  icy  water  that  well-nigh 
benumbed  his  immersed  feet.  On  the  farther 
side  of  the  broad  pool,  in  plain  sight,  stood 
"Old  Crusty!" 

He  was  hatless  and  coatless,  and  palpitant 
with  the  excitement  of  the  sport.  His  lean 
and  somewhat  sallow  face  was  flushed  above 
the  prominent  cheek-bones,  and  his  gray  eyes 
sparkled  brightly  in  the  gloom  of  the  cluster- 
ing branches.  He  stood  lithely  erect,  the 
usual  studious  stoop  of  the  shoulders  gone  for 
the  time,  and,  with  one  hand  firmly  grasping 
the  butt  of  his  rod  and  the  other  guarding  the 
reel,  was  giving  every  thought  to  the  playing 
of  a  big  trout  that,  fly  in  mouth,  was  darting 
and  tugging  until  the  slender  basswood  bent 
nearly  double.  As  Tom  looked,  surprised, 
breathless  with  the  excitement  of  his  discov- 
ery, the  fish  shot  under  the  shelter  of  an  over- 


APAIROFPOACHERS  193 

hanging  boulder,  weary  and  sulky,  and  the 
angler  began  slowly  to  reel  in  his  line.  Inch 
by  inch  came  the  trout,  now  without  remon- 
strance, now  jumping  and  slashing  like  ten 
fishes,  yet  ever  nearing  the  captor  and  the 
landing-net.  It  was  a  glorious  battle,  and 
Tom,  forgetting  all  else,  crept  nearer  and 
nearer  through  the  leaves  until,  hidden  only 
by  a  screen  of  alder  branches,  he  stood  at  the 
up-stream  edge  of  the  basin.  At  length,  re- 
sisting heroically,  fighting  every  inch  of  the 
way,  the  trout  was  drawn  close  in  to  the  flat 
rock  where  stood  his  exultant  captor.  The 
latter  reached  a  hand  softly  out  and  seized  the 
landing-net.  Then,  kneeling  on  the  brink  of 
the  pool,  with  one  leg,  he  made  a  sudden  dip ; 
there  was  an  instant  of  swishing,  then  up  came 

net  and  trout,  and 

At  the  end  of  the  pool  there  was  a  terrify- 
ing splash,  a  muttered  cry,  and  Tom,  forgetful 
of  his  precarious  footing,  sat  down  suddenly 
and  forcibly  on  a  stone,  his  legs  up  to  the 
knees  in  water.  The  landing-net  dropped 
from  the  angler's  hand,  and  the  trout,  sud- 
denly restored  to  his  element,  dashed  madly 
off,  while  the  reel  screeched  loudly  as  the  line 


194  APAIR  OF  POACHERS 

ran  out.  The  professor,  white  of  face,  stared 
amazedly  at  Tom.  Tom  stared  defiantly,  tri- 
umphantly back  at  the  professor.  For  a  long, 
long  minute  the  two  gazed  at  each  other  across 
the  sun-flecked  water.  Then,  with  a  shrug  of 
his  shoulders,  "  Old  Crusty  "  stooped  and  re- 
covered his  rod.  When  he  again  faced  the 
boy  there  was  a  disagreeable  expression  about 
his  mouth. 

"  Well,  Pierson,"  he  said  as  he  wound  up 
his  line,  "  you're  better  at  playing  the  spy 
than  at  studying  your  lessons,  it  seems." 

The  blood  rushed  into  Tom's  face,  but  he 
held  his  tongue.  He  could  well  afford  to  pass 
the  insult,  he  argued  with  savage  triumph; 
"  Old  Crusty  "  was  in  his  power.  He  had 
only  to  inform  Dr.  Willard,  and,  beyond  a 
doubt,  the  submaster's  connection  with  the 
school  would  terminate  instantly.  The  head 
master  held  poaching  to  be  the  deadliest  of 
sins,  and  poaching  on  Fernwood  especially 
heinous.  That  his  enemy  was  poaching,  that 
he  did  not  hold  permission  to  whip  the  big 
pool,  was  evident  from  the  confusion  into 
which  Tom's  sudden  entry  on  to  the  scene  had 
thrown  him.  Yes,  "  Old  Crusty  "  could  vent 


APAIROFPOACHERS  195 

his  anger  to  his  heart's  content;  for,  when  all 
was  said,  Tom  still  held  the  whip-hand.  But 
then  the  enormity  of  the  crime  with  which  he 
had  been  charged  struck  Tom  with  full  force, 
like  a  blow  in  the  face.  At  Willard's,  as  at 
all  schools,  spying,  like  tale-bearing,  was  held 
by  the  pupils  to  be  something  far  beneath  con- 
tempt. And  "  Old  Crusty  "  had  called  him  a 
spy!  The  blood  again  dyed  the  boy's  face, 
and  he  clambered  to  his  soaking  feet  and  faced 
the  submaster  angrily. 

"  It's  a  lie!  "  he  said  hotly.  "  I  was  not 
spying.  I  didn't  follow  you  here." 

The  submaster  raised  his  eyebrows  in- 
credulously. 

"  Is  that  the  truth?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  don't  lie,"  answered  Tom,  with  right- 
eous indignation,  glaring  hatred  across  the 
pool. 

"  Ah,"  said  the  other.  "  In  that  case  I 
beg  your  pardon.  I  retract  my  remark,  Pier- 


son." 


The  line  was  again  taut,  and  now,  appar- 
ently indifferent  to  the  boy's  presence,  he  be- 
gan to  play  the  trout  once  more,  warily,  slowly. 
Tom  looked  on  from  his  rock,  the  intensity  of 


196  APAIROFPOACHERS 

his  anger  past.  He  was  forced  to  acknowl- 
edge that  "  Old  Crusty  "  had  at  least  apolo- 
gized honestly  and  fairly ;  he  wished  he  hadn't : 
somehow,  he  felt  at  a  disadvantage.  And 
there  was  the  enemy  proceeding  with  his 
wicked  sport  for  all  the  world  as  though  Tom 
did  not  hold  his  fate  in  his  hand,  as  it  were! 
Tom  swelled  with  indignation. 

"  I  suppose  you  know  you're  poaching?  " 
he  asked,  presently,  breaking  the  long  silence. 
The  submaster  did  not  turn  his  head;  he 
merely  drew  his  brows  together  as  though  in 
protest  at  the  interruption.  Tom  scowled. 
What  a  hardened  criminal  "  Old  Crusty  " 
was,  to  be  sure  1 

The  trout  had  but  little  fight  left  in  him 
now,  and  his  journey  back  across  the  pool  was 
almost  without  excitement.  Only  when  he 
felt  the  imminence  of  the  shore  did  he  call 
upon  his  flagging  strength  and  make  one  last 
gallant  struggle  for  liberty.  To  such  purpose 
did  he  battle  then,  however,  that  the  man  at 
the  rod  was  forced  to  play  out  a  yard  or  so  of 
line.  Tom's  interest  was  again  engaged,  and, 
much  against  his  inclination,  he  had  to  ac- 
knowledge that  "  Old  Crusty  "  was  a  master 


A  PAIR  OF  POACHERS  197 

angler.  And  with  that  thought  came  another 
and  a  strange  one,  and  it  was  just  this : 

"  Why,"  he  asked  himself,  "  if  he  can  be 
as  wonderfully  patient  with  a  trout  as  all 
that,  why  can't  he  be  a  little  patient  with 
me?" 

Suddenly,  with  the  trout  almost  under  the 
bank,  the  angler  paused  and  looked  about  him, 
at  a  loss.  Tom  instantly  divined  his  quan- 
dary ;  the  landing-net  was  floating  on  the  sur- 
face of  the  pool  fully  three  yards  distant. 
Tom  grinned  with  malicious  satisfaction  for 
a  moment ;  but  then 

"  Will  you  take  the  rod  a  minute?  "  asked 
"  Old  Crusty,"  just  as  though  there  was  no 
enmity  between  them.  "  I'll  have  to  get  that 
net  somehow." 

Tom  looked  from  the  net  to  his  soaking 
shoes  and  trousers.  There  was  but  one  thing 
to  do. 

"  I'll  get  it,"  he  answered.  "I'm  wet 
already." 

He  threw  aside  coat  and  hat,  and  waded 
in.  The  professor  watched  him  with  expres- 
sionless face.  Tom  secured  the  runaway  net, 
and  came  out,  dripping  to  his  armpits,  at  the 

14 


198  APAIROFPOACHERS 

submaster's  side.  But  when  lie  offered  the 
net  the  other  only  asked  anxiously: 

"Do  you  think  you  can  land  him?  The 
leader's  almost  cut  through,  and  I'm  afraid  to 
bring  him  in  any  farther." 

Tom  hesitated,  net  in  hand. 

"  That  will  be  all  right,"  continued  the 
other;  "  I  promise  you  I'll  never  tell  that  you 
had  a  hand  in  it." 

Tom  flushed. 

"  I  wasn't  thinking  of  that,"  he  said. 
"  Hold  him  steady,  and  I'll  get  him." 

He  knelt  on  the  rock  and  looked  for  the 
trout.  It  was  nearly  two  yards  away  and  well 
under  the  water.  He  put  one  foot  over  the 
edge  and  groped  about  until  he  found  a  sup- 
port for  it  below  the  surface.  But  even  then 
his  arm  was  too  short  to  get  the  net  to  the 
fish. 

"  Can't  you  coax  him  in  another  foot?  ': 
he  asked  anxiously. 

"  I  '11  try, ' '  answered  ' '  Old  Crusty. "  "If 
the  line  will  hold " 

He  wound  gingerly.  The  gleaming  sides 
of  the  trout  came  toward  the  surface.  Tom 
reached  out  with  the  net,  slipped  it  quietly 


Tom  moved  the  net  toward  the  prey. 


A  PAIR  OF  POACHERS  199 

into  the  pool,  and  moved  it  toward  the  prey. 

"  Now!  "  whispered  the  professor,  in- 
tensely. 

Up  came  the  landing-net,  and  with  it, 
floundering  mightily  and  casting  the  glitter- 
ing drops  into  the  air,  came  the  captive. 

"  Well  done!  "  cried  the  professor,  laying 
aside  his  rod.  Praise  from  an  enemy  is  the 
sweetest  praise  of  all,  and  Tom's  heart  gave  a 
bound.  The  professor  seized  the  trout,  took 
it  from  the  net,  and,  laying  it  upon  the  bank, 
removed  the  hook  from  its  gasping  mouth. 
Then,  with  a  finger  crooked  through  its  gill, 
he  held  it  admiringly  aloft. 

"  Isn't  he  a  beauty?  "  he  asked. 

"  You  bet!  "  replied  Tom,  in  awestruck 
tones.  "  The  biggest  I  ever  saw  in  this 
stream.  Must  be  two  pounds  and  a  half, 
sir?" 

"  Well,  two  pounds  easily,"  answered 
"  Old  Crusty,"  shutting  one  eye  and  hefting 
his  troutship  knowingly. 

"  What  will  you  do  with  him?  "  asked 
Tom. 

The  other  smiled.  For  answer  he  knelt 
again  on  the  rock,  and,  removing  his  hold, 


200  APAIROFPOACHERS 

allowed  the  fish  to  slide  from  his  open  palms 
back  into  the  pool.  Tom's  eyes  grew  round 
with  surprise.  The  trout,  after  one  brief  mo- 
ment of  amazement  quite  as  vast  as  the  boy's, 
scuttled  from  sight.  Tom  turned  questioning 
eyes  upon  the  professor.  The  latter  shrugged 
his  shoulders  and  smiled. 

"  I  don't  want  him;  he  would  be  of  no  use 
to  me,  Pierson.  All  I  want  is  the  joy  of  catch- 
ing him." 

He  turned,  donned  his  hat  and  coat,  and 
began  to  wind  up  his  line,  examining  the 
frayed  leader  critically.  Tom  began  to  feel 
uncomfortable ;  it  seemed  to  him  that  the  truce 
should  be  at  an  end  now,  and  that  he  ought 
to  take  his  departure.  But  he  didn't;  he 
merely  stood  by  and  watched.  Presently  the 
professor  turned  to  him  again,  a  rather  rueful 
smile  on  his  lips. 

"  Pierson,"  he  said,  "  what  are  you  going 
to  do  with  me  now  that  you've  caught  me  here 
where  poachers  and  trespassers  are  forbid- 
den?" 

Tom  dropped  his  gaze,  but  made  no  an- 
swer. The  submaster  thrust  the  sections  of 
his  rod  into  a  brown  leather  case  and  slipped 


APAIROFPOACHERS  201 

his  fly-book  into  his  coat  pocket.  Then  he 
said  suddenly : 

"  Look  here,  Pierson,  I'm  going  to  ask  a 
favor  of  you:  don't  say  anything  about  this 
to  the  doctor,  please." 

Tom's  momentary  qualm  of  pity  disap- 
peared. "  Old  Crusty  '  was  begging  for 
mercy!  The  boy  experienced  the  glow  of 
proud  satisfaction  felt  by  the  gladiator  of  old 
when,  his  foot  on  the  neck  of  the  vanquished 
opponent,  he  heard  the  crowded  Colosseum 
burst  into  applause.  But  with  the  elation  of 
the  conqueror  was  mingled  the  disappoint- 
ment of  one  who  sees  the  shattering  of  an  idol. 
"  Old  Crusty  "  had  been  to  him  the  personifi- 
cation of  injustice  and  tyranny;  but  never 
once  had  Tom  doubted  his  honesty  or  courage. 
An  enemy  he  had  been,  but  an  honored  one. 
And  now  the  honesty  was  stripped  away. 
"  Old  Crusty  "  had  not  the  courage  to  stand 
up  like  a  man  and  take  his  punishment,  but 
had  descended  so  low  as  to  beg  his  enemy  to 
aid  him  in  the  cowardly  concealment  of  his 
crime!  And  this  man  had  dared  to  call  him 
a  spy!  Tom  gulped  in  an  effort  to  restrain 
his  angry  indignation. 


202  APAIROFPOACHERS 

And  all  the  while  he  had  been  looking 
across  the  pool,  and  so  was  not  aware  that  the 
submaster  had  been  studying  his  face  very  in- 
tently, or  that  the  submaster 's  lips  held  a 
queer  little  smile  oddly  at  variance  with  the 
character  of  a  detected  criminal  at  the  mercy 
of  his  enemy. 

The  detected  criminal  continued  his  spe- 
cious pleading. 

"  You  see,  Pierson,"  he  said,  "  there's  just 
one  thing  that  can  happen  to  a  person  in  my 
position  convicted  of  poaching,  and  that's  dis- 
charge. Of  course  you  don't  recognize  much 
difference  between  discharge  and  resignation  ; 
but  I  do:  the  difference  is  apparent  when  it 
comes  to  obtaining  a  new  position.  A  dis- 
charged instructor  is  a  hopeless  proposition; 
one  who  has  resigned  may,  in  the  course  of 
time,  find  another  place.  And  so  what  I  ask 
you  to  do  is  to  keep  quiet  and  give  me  time  to 
resign." 

"  Oh!  "  said  Tom.  His  faith  in  mankind 
was  reestablished.  He  had  misjudged  the 
enemy.  .After  all,  "  Old  Crusty  "  was  worthy 
of  his  hatred.  He  was  very  glad.  But  be- 


APAIROFPOACHERS  203 

fore  he  could  find  an  answer  the  other  went 
on: 

"  If  I  were  a  younger  man,  Pierson,  my 
chances  would  be  better.  But  at  my  time  of 
life  losing  my  position  means  a  good  deal. 
You  must  see  that.  And — could  you  give  me 
until  to-morrow  evening?  r 

Tom  nodded  without  looking  up.  He 
wanted  to  say  something,  he  didn't  at  all  know 
what.  But  the  elation  was  all  gone,  and  he 
felt — oh,  miserably  mean! 

"  Thank  you,"  said  the  submaster,  pleas- 
antly. "  And  now  I  think  we'd  best  go  home. 
You  should  get  those  wet  clothes  off  as  soon 
as  possible."  He  looked  at  his  watch.  "  I 
had  no  idea  it  was  so  late,"  he  muttered. 
"  We'll  have  to  hurry."  He  moved  off  along 
the  edge  of  the  stream,  and  Tom  recovered 
coat  and  hat  and  followed.  He  didn't  feel 
happy.  His  thoughts  were  fixed  on  matters 
other  than  his  footing,  and  more  than  once  he 
went  into  the  brook.  Presently  he  broke  the 
silence. 

"  Are  you  going  to — resign,  sir?  " 

"  Doesn't  that  seem  best,  Pierson?  " 


204  APAIROFPOACHERS 

1 1  I — I  don 't  know, ' '  muttered  Tom.  There 
was  another  silence,  lasting  for  a  few  yards. 
Then,'"  I — I  wish  you  wouldn't,  sir,"  he  said 
with  a  gulp. 

"  Eh?  ':  The  submaster  paused,  turned, 
and  faced  him  in  surprise.  "  What's  that, 
Pierson?  " 

Tom  cleared  his  throat. 

"  I  said — I  wished  you  wouldn't;  resign, 
you  know." 

"  What  do  you  mean?  "  asked  the  other. 
"  Do  you  want  to  have  me  discharged, 
or " 

"  No,  sir,  I  don't,"  answered  the  boy,  get- 
ting his  voice  back.  "  I — I'm  not  going  to 
tell  at  all,  sir — ever! ' 

"  How's  that?  "  asked  the  submaster,  in 
puzzled  tones.  "  You  don't  like  me  the  least 
bit  in  the  world,  my  boy;  in  fact,  I'm  not  sure 
you  don't  hate  me  heartily.  Doesn't  it  strike 
you  that  you've  got  your  chance  now?  Get 
rid  of  me,  Pierson,  and  there'll  be  no  mathe- 
matics— for  a  while." 

"  I  don't  want  to  get  rid  of  you,"  muttered 
Tom,  shamefacedly.  "  I — I  didn't  like  you: 
you'd  never  let  me;  you've  always  been  as 


A  PAIR  OF  POACHERS  205 

hard  on  me  as  you  could  be.  I  can  get  those 
lessons — I  know  I  can! — if  you'll  only  not  be 
down  on  me.  I  did  hate  you,  sir" — he  looked 
up  with  a  gleam  of  the  old  defiance — "  but  I 
don't  any  longer." 

"Why?"  asked  "Old  Crusty,"  after  a 
moment,  very  quietly  and  kindly.  Tom  shook 
his  head. 

"  I  don't  know — exactly.  I  guess  because 
you're  a  good  trout  fisher,  and  you  begged  my 
pardon,  and — and  you  treated  me  like — 
like — "  He  faltered  and  came  to  a  pause,  at 
a  loss  for  words.  But  the  other  nodded  his 
head  as  though  he  understood. 

"  I  see,"  he  muttered.  Then,  "  Look  here, 
Pierson,"  he  said,  "  I  see  that  I've  been  mis- 
taken about  you;  I've  been  greatly  at  fault. 
I  tell  you  so  frankly;  and — I'm  sorry.  If  I 
were  going  to  remain  I  think  you  and  I  would 
get  on  a  lot  better  together." 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Tom,  eagerly. 
"  And — and  couldn't  you  stay,  sir?  ': 

The  other  was  silent  a  moment,  looking 
smilingly  at  the  boy's  bent  head.  At  length, 
"If  I  should  accept  of  your — ah — mercy, 
Pierson,  it  would  have  to  be  understood  that 


206  A  PAIR  OF  POACHERS 

there  was  no  bargain  between  us.  I  think 
we'd  get  on  better,  you  and  I,  but  I  wouldn't 
buy  your  silence.  If  you  ever  needed  a  wig- 
ging or  any  other  punishment  I'd  give  it  to 
you.  Would  you  agree  to  that  ?  ' 

"  I  don't  want  any  old  bargain,  sir,"  Tom 
cried.  "  And  I'll  take  the  punishment.  I'm 
— I'm  not  a  baby !  ' 

"  Good!  Shake  hands.  Now  let  us  hurry 
home." 

"  Yes,  sir,  but — just  a  minute,  please." 
Tom  darted  into  the  wood  and  came  back  with 
his  rod  and  flies.  He  did  not  try  to  conceal 
them,  but  he  looked  sheepishly  up  into  the  sub- 
master's  face.  This  was  a  study  of  conflict- 
ing emotions.  In  the  end  amusement  got  the 
better  of  the  others,  and  he  viewed  Tom  with 
a  broad  smile. 

"  And  so  there  is  a  pair  of  us,  eh?  "  he 
asked. 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Tom.  The  submas- 
ter  laughed  softly  and  put  one  hand  compan- 
ionably  upon  the  boy's  shoulder. 

"  Pierson,"  he  said,  "  suppose  you  and  I 
agree  to  reform?  " 

"  All  right,  sir." 


A  PAIR  OF  POACHERS  207 

"  No  more  poaching,  eh?  After  this  we'll 
stick  to  our  own  preserves." 

"  Yes,  sir.    I'm  willing  if  you  are." 

"  Because,  after  all,  we  can't  improve  on 
that  trite  old  proverb  which  says  that  honesty 
is  the  best  policy,  can  we?  ' 

"  No,  sir,"  Tom  responded. 

They  left  the  thicket  together  and  began 
the  ascent  of  the  meadow  hill.  Twilight  was 
gathering,  and  a  sharp-edged  crescent  of  sil- 
ver glowed  in  the  evening  sky  above  the  tower 
of  the  school-hall.  It  was  the  submaster  who 
broke  the  silence  first. 

"  And  yet  there  are  fine  trout  in  the  big 
pool, ' '  he  said,  musingly. 

Tom  sighed  unconsciously.  ' '  Aren  't  there, 
though?  "  he  asked. 

"  I  took  one  out  one  day  last  spring  that 
weighed  nearly  three  pounds,"  continued  the 
submaster. 

Tom  sighed  again.  "  Did  you?  "  he  asked 
dolefully. 

"  Yes;  and — look  here,  Pierson,  tell  me, 
how  would  you  like  to  fish  there  as  often  as 
you  wanted  through  the  trout  season?  ': 

"  I'd  like  it!  "  answered  Tom,  briefly  and 


208  APAIROFPOACHERS 

succinctly,  wishing,  nevertheless,  that  the  sub- 
master  wouldn't  pursue  such  a  harrowing  sub- 
ject. 

"  Would  you?  Well,  now,  I  haven't  the 
least  doubt  in  the  world  but  that  I  can  obtain 
permission  for  you.  Mr.  Greenway  is  a  friend 
of  mine,  and  while  he  wouldn't  care  to  allow 
the  whole  school  to  go  in  there,  I'm  certain 
that " 

"A  friend  of  yours?'  gasped  Tom. 
"  Then— then " 

The  submaster  smiled  apologetically  as  he 
replied : 

"  No,  Pierson,  I  wasn't  poaching." 

Tom  stared  in  amazement  and  dismay. 

"  But — but  you  said : 

"  No,  I  didn't  say  it,  but  I  allowed  you  to 
think  it;  and  I  plead  guilty  to  a  measure  of 
deceit.  But  I  think  you'll  forgive  it,  my  boy, 
because  it  has  led  to — well,  to  a  better  under- 
standing between  us.  Don't  you  think  it  has  ?" 

"  Yes,  sir,"  answered  Tom,  wondering  but 
happy. 

"  Good;  and—  Hello,  there's  the  bell!  " 
cried  the  submaster.  "  Let's  run  for  it!  " 

And  they  did. 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 


THE  gong  clanged,  the  last  man  sprang 
aboard,  and  the  car  trundled  away  to  the  ac- 
companiment of  a  final  lusty  cheer  from  the 
crowd  which  still  lingered  in  front  of  the  hotel. 
Then  a  corner  was  turned,  and  the  last  long- 
drawn  "  Er-r-rskine!  "  was  cut  short  by  in- 
tercepting walls.  The  throngs  were  stream- 
ing out  to  the  field  where,  on  the  smooth  green 
diamond,  the  rival  nines  of  Robinson  and 
Erskine  were  to  meet  in  the  deciding  game  of 
the  season.  For  a  while  the  car  with  its  dozen 
or  so  passengers  followed  the  crowds,  but  pres- 
ently it  swung  eastward  toward  the  railroad, 
and  then  made  its  way  through  a  portion  of 
Collegetown,  which,  to  one  passenger  at  least, 
looked  far  from  attractive. 

Ned  Brewster  shared  one  of  the  last  seats 
with  a  big  leather  bat-bag,  and  gave  himself 

209 


210  BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 

over  to  Ms  thoughts.  The  mere  fact  of  his 
presence  there  in  the  special  trolley-car  as  a 
substitute  on  the  Erskine  varsity  nine  was 
alone  wonderful  enough  to  keep  his  thoughts 
busy  for  a  week.  Even  yet  he  had  not  alto- 
gether recovered  from  his  surprise. 

Ned  had  played  the  season  through  at  cen- 
ter field  on  the  freshman  nine,  and  had  made 
a  name  for  himself  as  a  batsman.  On  Thurs- 
day the  freshman  team  had  played  its  last 
game,  had  met  with  defeat,  and  had  disbanded. 
Ned,  trotting  off  the  field,  his  heart  bitter  with 
disappointment  at  the  outcome  of  the  final  con- 
test, had  heard  his  name  called,  and  had  turned 
to  confront  "  Big  Jim  "  Milford,  the  varsity 
captain. 

"  I  wish  you  would  report  at  the  varsity 
table  to-night,  Brewster,"  Milford  had  said. 
Then  he  had  turned  abruptly  away,  perhaps 
to  avoid  smiling  outright  at  the  expression  of 
bewilderment  on  the  freshman's  countenance. 
Ned  never  was  certain  whether  he  had  made 
any  verbal  response;  but  he  remembered  the 
way  in  which  his  heart  had  leaped  into  his 
throat  and  stuck  there,  as  well  as  the  narrow 
escape  he  had  had  from  dashing  his  brains  out 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT  211 

against  the  locker-house,  owing  to  the  fact 
that  he  had  covered  most  of  the  way  thither 
at  top  speed.  That  had  been  on  Thursday; 
to-day,  which  was  Saturday,  he  was  a  substi- 
tute on  the  varsity,  with  a  possibility — just 
that  and  no  more — of  playing  for  a  minute  or 
two  against  Robinson,  and  so  winning  his  E  in 
his  freshman  year,  a  feat  accomplished  but 
seldom ! 

Ned  had  been  the  only  member  of  the 
freshman  nine  taken  on  the  varsity  that 
spring.  At  first  this  had  bothered  him ;  there 
were  two  or  three  others — notably  Barrett, 
the  freshman  captain — who  were,  in  his  esti- 
mation, more  deserving  of  the  good  fortune 
than  he.  But,  strange  to  say,  it  had  been  just 
those  two  or  three  who  had  shown  themselves 
honestly  glad  at  his  luck,  while  the  poorest 
player  on  the  nine  had  loudly  hinted  at  favor- 
itism. Since  Thursday  night  Ned  had,  of 
course,  made  the  acquaintance  of  all  the  var- 
sity men,  and  they  had  treated  him  as  one  of 
themselves.  But  they  were  all,  with  the  single 
exception  of  Stilson,  seniors  and  juniors,  and 
Ned  knew  that  a  freshman  is  still  a  freshman, 
even  if  he  does  happen  to  be  a  varsity  substi- 


212  BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 

tute.  Hence  lie  avoided  all  appearance  of 
trying  to  force  himself  upon  the  others,  and 
so  it  was  that  on  his  journey  to  the  grounds 
he  had  only  a  bat-bag  for  companion. 

The  closely  settled  part  of  town  was  left 
behind  now,  and  the  car  was  speeding  over  a 
smooth,  elm-lined  avenue.  Windows  held  the 
brown  banners  of  Robinson,  but  not  often  did 
a  dash  of  purple  meet  the  gaze  of  the  Erskine 
players.  At  the  farther  end  of  the  car  Mc- 
Limmont  and  Housel  and  Lester  were  gath- 
ered about  "  Baldy  "  Simson,  the  trainer,  and 
their  laughter  arose  above  the  talk  and  whis- 
tling of  the  rest.  Nearer  at  hand,  across  the 
aisle,  sat  "  Lady  "  Levett,  the  big  first-base- 
man. Ned  wondered  why  he  was  called 
"  Lady."  There  was  nothing  ladylike  appar- 
ent about  him.  He  was  fully  six  feet  one, 
broad  of  shoulder,  mighty  of  chest,  deep  of 
voice,  and  dark  of  complexion — a  jovial,  bel- 
lowing giant  whom  everybody  liked.  Beside 
Levett  sat  Page,  the  head  coach,  and  Hovey, 
the  manager.  Then  there  were  Greene  and 
Captain  Milford  beyond,  and  across  from 
them  Hill  and  Kesner,  both  substitutes.  In 
the  seat  in  front  of  Ned  two  big  chaps  were 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT  213 

talking  together.  They  were  Billings  and 
Stilson,  the  latter  a  sophomore. 

"I'll  tell  you  what  I'll  do,"  Billings  was 
saying.  "If  we  lose  I'll  buy  you  a  dinner  at 
the  Elm  Tree  Monday  night;  if  we  win  you 
do  the  same  for  me." 

"Oh,  I  don't  bet!" 

"  Get  out !    That's  fair,  isn't  it,  Brownie f  " 

A  little  round-faced  chap  across  the  aisle 
nodded  laughingly.  His  name  was  Browne 
and  he  played  short-stop.  He  wrote  his  name 
with  an  e,  and  so  his  friends  gave  him  the  full 
benefit  of  it. 

' '  Yes,  that 's  fair, ' '  said  Browne.  ' '  We  're 
bound  to  lose." 

"  Oh,  what  are  you  afraid  of?  "  said  Stil- 
son. 

"  No;  that's  straight!  We  haven't  much 
show;  we  can't  hit  Dithman." 

"  You  can't,  maybe,"  jeered  Stilson. 

"  I'll  bet  you  can't  either,  my  chipper 
young  friend!  ' 

"  111  bet  I  get  a  hit  off  him!  " 

"  Oh,  onel" 

"  Well,  two,  then.    Come,  now!  " 

"  No;  I  won't  bet,"  answered  Browne, 

15 


214  BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 

grinning.  "  If  there's  a  prize  ahead,  there's 
no  telling  what  you'll  do;  is  there,  Pete?  ' 

"No;  he  might  even  make  a  run,"  re- 
sponded "Billings.  "  But  it's  going  to  take 
more  than  two  hits  to  win  this  game,"  he  went 
on,  dropping  his  voice,  "  for  I'll  just  tell  you 
they're  going  to  pound  Hugh  all  over  the 
field." 

"  Well,  what  if  they  do  get  a  dozen  runs 
or  so?  "  said  Stilson.  "  Haven't  we  got  a 
mighty  batter,  imported  especially  for  the  oc- 
casion, to  win  out  for  us?  ' 

"  Whom  do  you  mean?  "  asked  Billings. 

"  I  mean  the  redoubtable  Mr.  Brewster,  of 
course — the  freshman  Joan  of  Arc  who  is  to 
lead  us  to  vict " 

"  Not  so  loud,"  whispered  Browne,  glan- 
cing at  Ned's  crimsoning  cheeks. 

Stilson  swung  around  and  shot  a  look  at 
the  substitute,  then  turned  back  grinning. 

"  Cleared  off  nicely,  hasn't  it?  "  he  ob- 
served, with  elaborate  nonchalance. 

Ned  said  to  himself,  "  He's  got  it  in  for 
me  because  he  knows  that  if  I  play  it  will  be  in 
his  place." 

The  car  slowed  down  with  much  clanging 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT  215 

of  gong,  and  pushed  its  way  through  the  crowd 
before  the  entrance  to  the  field.  Then,  with  a 
final  jerk,  it  came  to  a  stop.  "  All  out,  fel- 
lows! "  cried  Hovey;  and  Ned  followed  the 
others  through  the  throng,  noisy  with  the 
shouts  of  ticket  and  score-card  venders,  to 
the  gate  and  dressing-room. 

II 

NED  sat  on  the  bench.  With  him  were 
Hovey,  the  manager,  who  was  keeping  score, 
Hill  and  Kesner,  substitutes  like  himself,  and, 
at  the  farther  end,  Simson,  the  trainer,  and 
Page,  the  head  coach.  Page  had  pulled  his 
straw  hat  far  over  his  eyes,  but  from  under 
the  brim  he  was  watching  sharply  every  inci- 
dent of  the  diamond,  the  while  he  talked 
with  expressionless  countenance  to  "  Baldy." 
Back  of  them  the  grand  stand  was  purple  with 
flags  and  ribbons,  but  at  a  little  distance  on 
either  side  the  purple  gave  place  to  the  brown 
of  Robinson.  Back  of  third  base,  at  the  west 
end  of  the  stand,  the  Robinson  College  band 
held  forth  brazenly  at  intervals,  making  up  in 
vigor  what  it  lacked  in  tunefulness.  In  front 
of  the  spectators  the  diamond  spread  deeply 


216  BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 

green,  save  where  the  base-lines  left  the  dusty 
red-brown  earth  exposed,  and  marked  with 
lines  and  angles  of  lime,  which  gleamed  snow- 
white  in  the  afternoon  sunlight.  Beyond  the 
diamond  the  field  stretched,  as  smooth  and 
even  as  a  great  velvet  carpet,  to  a  distant  fence 
and  a  line  of  trees  above  whose  tops  a  turret 
or  tower  here  and  there  indicated  the  where- 
abouts of  town  and  college. 

Ned  had  sat  there  on  the  bench  during  six 
innings,  the  sun  burning  his  neck  and  the  dust 
from  the  batsman's  box  floating  into  his  face. 
In  those  six  innings  he  had  seen  Erskine  strug- 
gle pluckily  against  defeat — a  defeat  which 
now,  with  the  score  12-6  in  Robinson's  favor, 
hovered,  dark  and  ominous,  above  her.  Yet 
he  had  not  lost  hope;  perhaps  his  optimism 
was  largely  due  to  the  fact  that  he  found  it 
difficult  to  believe  that  Fate  could  be  so  cruel 
as  to  make  the  occasion  of  his  first  appearance 
with  the  varsity  team  one  of  sorrow.  He  was 
only  seventeen,  and  his  idea  of  Fate  was  a 
kind-hearted,  motherly  old  soul  with  a  watch- 
ful interest  in  his  welfare.  Yet  he  was  forced 
to  acknowledge  that  Fate,  or  somebody,  was 
treating  him  rather  shabbily.  The  first  half 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT  217 

of  the  seventh  was  as  good  as  over,  and  still 
he  kicked  his  heels  idly  beneath  the  bench. 
Page  didn't  seem  to  be  even  aware  of  his  pres- 
ence. To  be  sure,  there  were  Hill  and  Kesner 
in  the  same  box,  but  that  didn't  bring  much 
comfort.  Besides,  any  one  with  half  an  eye 
could  see  that  Stilson  should  have  been  taken 
off  long  ago;  he  hadn't  made  a  single  hit,  and 
already  had  three  errors  marked  against  him. 
Ned  wondered  how  his  name  would  look  in  the 
column  instead  of  Stilson 's,  and  edged  along 
the  bench  until  he  could  look  over  Hovey's 
shoulder.  The  manager  glanced  up,  smiled 
in  a  perfunctory  way,  and  credited  the  Rob- 
inson runner  with  a  stolen  base.  Ned  read  the 
batting  list  again : 

BILLINGS,  r.  f . 
GREENE,  1.  f . 
MILFORD,  2b.,  Capt. 
LESTER,  p. 
BROWNE,  ss. 
HOUSEL,  c. 

McLlMMONT,  3b. 

LEVETT,  Ib. 
STILSON,  c.  f. 


218  BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 

There  was  a  sudden  burst  of  applause  from 
the  seats  behind,  and  a  red-faced  senior  with 
a  wilted  collar  balanced  himself  upon  the  rail- 
ing and  begged  for  "  one  more  good  one,  fel- 
lows! '  The  first  of  the  seventh  was  at  an 
end,  and  the  Erskine  players,  perspiring  and 
streaked  with  dust,  trotted  in.  "  Lady ' 
Levett  sank  down  on  the  bench  beside  Ned 
with  a  sigh,  and  fell  to  examining  the  little 
finger  of  his  left  hand,  which  looked  very  red, 
and  which  refused  to  work  in  unison  with  its 
companions. 

"Hurt?  "asked  Ned. 

"  Blame  thing's  bust,  I  guess,"  said 
"  Lady,"  disgustedly.  "  Oh,  Baldy,  got 
some  tape  there?  ' 

The  trainer,  wearing  the  anxious  air  of  a 
hen  with  one  chicken,  bustled  up  with  his 
black  bag,  and  Ned  watched  the  bandaging  of 
the  damaged  finger  until  the  sudden  calling 
of  his  name  by  the  head  coach  sent  his  heart 
into  his  throat  and  brought  him  leaping  to  his 
feet  with  visions  of  hopes  fulfilled.  But  his 
heart  subsided  again  in  the  instant,  for  what 
Page  said  was  merely : 

"  Brewster,  you  go  over  there  and  catch 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT  219 

for  Greene,  will  you?  ':  And  then,  turning 
again  to  the  bench,  "  Kesner,  you  play  left 
field  next  half." 

Ned  picked  up  a  catcher's  mitt,  and  for 
the  rest  of  the  half  caught  the  balls  that  the 
substitute  pitcher  sent  him  as  he  warmed  up 
to  take  Lester's  place.  Greene  didn't  keep 
him  so  busy,  however,  that  he  couldn't  watch 
the  game.  Milford  had  hit  safely  to  right 
field  and  had  reached  second  on  a  slow  bunt  by 
Lester.  The  wavers  of  the  purple  flags  im- 
plored little  Browne  to  "  smash  it  out!  "  But 
the  short-stop  never  found  the  ball,  and  Hou- 
sel  took  his  place  and  lifted  the  sphere  just 
over  second-baseman's  head  into  the  outfield. 
The  bases  were  full.  The  red-faced  senior 
was  working  his  arms  heroically  and  begging 
in  husky  tones  for  more  noise.  And  when,  a 
minute  later,  McLimmont  took  up  his  bat  and 
faced  the  Robinson  pitcher,  the  supporters  of 
the  purple  went  mad  up  there  on  the  sun-smit- 
ten stand  and  drowned  the  discordant  efforts 
of  the  Robinson  band. 

McLimmont  rubbed  his  hands  in  the  dust, 
rubbed  the  dust  off  on  his  trousers,  and  swung 
his  bat.  Dithman,  who  had  puzzled  Erskine 


220  BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 

batters  all  day  and  had  pitched  a  magnificent 
game  for  six  innings,  shook  himself  together. 
McLimmont  waited.  No,  thank  you,  he  didn't 
care  for  that  out-shoot,  nor  for  that  drop,  nor 
for-  What?  A  strike,  did  he  say?  Well, 
perhaps  it  did  go  somewhere  near  the  plate, 
though  to  see  it  coming  you'd  have  thought  it 
was  going  to  be  a  passed  ball !  One  and  two, 
wasn't  it  ?  Thanks ;  there  was  no  hurry  then, 
so  he'd  just  let  that  in-curve  alone,  wait  until 
something  worth  while  came  along,  and — Eh! 
what  was  that?  Strike  two!  Well,  well, 
well,  of  all  the  umpires  this  fellow  must  be  a 
beginner!  Never  mind  that,  though.  But 
he'd  have  to  look  sharp  now  or  else 

Crack! 

Off:  sped  the  ball,  and  off  sped  McLim- 
mont. The  former  went  over  first-baseman's 
head ;  the  latter  swung  around  the  bag  like  an 
automobile  taking  a  corner,  and  raced  for  sec- 
ond, reaching  it  on  his  stomach  a  second  be- 
fore the  ball.  There  was  rejoicing  where  the 
purple  flags  fluttered,  for  Captain  Milford 
and  Lester  had  scored. 

But  Erskine's  good  fortune  ended  there. 
McLimmont  was  thrown  out  while  trying  to 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT  221 

steal  third,  and  Levett  popped  a  short  fly  into 
the  hands  of  the  pitcher.  Greene  trotted  off 
to  the  box,  and  Ned  walked  dejectedly  back  to 
the  bench.  Page  stared  at  him  in  surprise. 
Then,  "  Didn't  I  tell  you  to  play  center 
field?  "  he  ejaculated. 

Ned's  heart  turned  a  somersault  and  landed 
in  his  throat.  He  stared  dumbly  back  at  the 
head  coach  and  shook  his  head.  As  he  did  so 
he  became  aware  of  Stilson's  presence  on  the 
bench. 

"What?  Well,  get  a  move  on!"  said 
Page. 

Get  a  move  on !  Ned  went  out  to  center  as 
though  he  had  knocked  a  three-bagger  and 
wanted  to  get  home  on  it.  Little  Browne 
grinned  at  him  as  he  sped  by. 

"  Good  work,  Brewster!"  he  called,  softly. 

Over  at  left,  Kesner,  happy  over  his  own 
good  fortune,  waved  congratulations.  In  the 
Erskine  section  the  desultory  hand-clapping 
which  had  accompanied  Ned's  departure  for 
center  field  died  away,  and  the  eighth  inning 
began  with  the  score  12-8. 


222  BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 


III 


FROM  center  field  the  grand  stands  are 
very  far  away.  Ned  was  glad  of  it.  He  felt 
particularly  happy  and  wanted  to  have  a  good 
comfortable  grin  all  to  himself.  He  had  won 
his  E.  Nothing  else  mattered  very  much  now. 
So  grin  he  did  to  his  heart's  content,  and  even 
jumped  up  and  down  on  his  toes  a  few  times ; 
he  would  have  liked  to  sing  or  whistle,  but 
that  was  out  of  the  question.  And  then  sud- 
denly he  began  to  wonder  whether  he  had  not, 
after  all,  secured  the  coveted  symbol  under 
false  pretense ;  would  he  be  able  to  do  any  bet- 
ter than  Stilson  had  done?  Robinson's  clever 
pitcher  had  fooled  man  after  man;  was  it 
likely  that  he  would  succeed  where  the  best 
batsmen  of  the  varsity  nine  had  virtually 
failed?  Or,  worse,  supposing  he  showed  up 
no  better  here  in  the  outfield  than  had  Stil- 
son! The  sun  was  low  in  the  west  and  the 
atmosphere  was  filled  with  a  golden  haze;  it 
seemed  to  him  that  it  might  be  very  easy  to 
misjudge  a  ball  in  that  queer  glow.  Of  a  sud- 
den his  heart  began  to  hammer  at  his  ribs  sick- 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT  223 

eningly.  He  was  afraid — afraid  that  he  would 
fail,  when  the  trial  came,  there  with  the  whole 
college  looking  on!  Little  shivers  ran  up  his 
back,  and  he  clenched  his  hands  till  they  hurt. 
He  wished,  oh,  how  he  wished  it  was  over! 
Then  there  came  the  sharp  sound  of  bat 
against  ball,  and  in  an  instant  he  was  racing 
in  toward  second,  his  thoughts  intent  upon  the 
brown  speck  that  sailed  high  in  air,  his  fears 
all  forgotten. 

Back  sped  second-baseman,  and  on  went 
Ned.  "My  baU!  "  he  shouted.  Milford 
hesitated  an  instant,  then  gave  up  the  attempt. 
"  All  yours,  Brewster!  ' '  he  shouted  back. 
*  *  Steady !  '  Ned  finished  his  run  and  glanced 
up,  stepped  a  little  to  the  left,  put  up  his 
hands,  and  felt  the  ball  thud  against  his  glove. 
Then  he  fielded  it  to  second  and  trotted  back ; 
and  as  he  went  he  heard  the  applause,  loud 
and  hearty,  from  the  stands.  After  that  there 
was  no  more  fear.  Robinson  failed  to  get  a 
man  past  first,  and  presently  he  was  trotting 
in  to  the  bench  side  by  side  with  Kesner. 

"  Brewster  at  bat!  "  called  Hovey,  and, 
with  a  sudden  throb  at  his  heart,  Ned  selected 
a  stick  and  went  to  the  plate.  He  stood  there 


224  BREW STER'S  DEBUT 

swinging  his  bat  easily,  confidently,  as  one 
who  is  not  to  be  fooled  by  the  ordinary  wiles 
of  the  pitcher,  a  well-built,  curly-haired 
youngster  with  blue  eyes,  and  cheeks  in  which 
the  red  showed  through  the  liberal  coating  of 
tan. 

"  The  best  batter  the  freshmen  had,"  fel- 
lows whispered  one  to  another. 

"  Looks  as  though  he  knew  how,  too,  eh? 
Just  you  watch  him,  nowl >; 

And  the  red-faced  senior  once  more  de- 
manded three  long  Erskines,  three  times 
three,  and  three  long  Erskines  for  Brewster ! 
And  Ned  heard  them — he  couldn't  very  well 
have  helped  it! — and  felt  very  grateful  and 
proud.  And  five  minutes  later  he  was  back 
on  the  bench,  frowning  miserably  at  his 
knuckles,  having  been  struck  out  without  the 
least  difficulty  by  the  long-legged  Dithman. 
The  pride  was  all  gone.  "  But,"  he  repeated, 
silently,  "  wait  until  next  time!  Just  wait 
until  next  time!  ' 

Billings  found  the  Robinson  pitcher  for  a 
two-bagger,  stole  third,  and  came  home  on  a 
hit  by  Greene.  Erskine's  spirits  rose  another 
notch.  Three  more  runs  to  tie  the  score  in 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT  225 

this  inning,  and  then — why,  it  would  be  strange 
indeed  if  the  purple  couldn't  win  out!  Cap- 
tain Milf  ord  went  to  bat  in  a  veritable  tempest 
of  cheers.  He  looked  determined;  but  so  did 
his  adversary,  the  redoubtable  Dithman. 

"  We've  got  to  tie  it  this  inning,"  said 
Levett,  anxiously.  "  We'll  never  do  it  next, 
when  the  tail-enders  come  up." 

"  There's  one  tail-ender  who's  going  to  hit 
that  chap  in  the  box  next  time,"  answered 
Ned. 

"  Lady  "  looked  amused. 

"  You'll  be  in  luck  if  it  comes  around  to 
you,"  he  said.  "  We  all  will.  Oh,  thunder! 
Another  strike!  " 

A  moment  later  they  were  on  their  feet, 
and  the  ball  was  arching  into  left  field;  and 
"  Big  Jim  "  was  plowing  his  way  around  first. 
But  the  eighth  inning  ended  right  there,  for 
the  ball  plumped  into  left-fielder's  hands. 
"  Lady  "  groaned,  picked  up  his  big  mitt,  and 
ambled  to  first,  and  the  ninth  inning  began 
with  the  score  12  to  9. 

Greene  was  determined  that  Robinson 
should  not  increase  his  tally,  even  to  the  ex- 
tent of  making  it  a  baker's  dozen.  And  he 


226  BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 

pitched  wonderful  ball,  striking  out  the  first 
two  batsmen,  allowing  the  next  to  make  first 
on  a  hit  past  short-stop,  and  then  bringing  the 
half  to  an  end  by  sending  three  glorious  balls 
over  the  corner  of  the  plate  one  after  another, 
amid  the  frantic  cheers  of  the  Erskine  contin- 
gent and  the  dismay  of  the  puzzled  batsman. 
Then  the  rival  nines  changed  places  for  the 
last  time,  and  Robinson  set  grimly  and  deter- 
minedly about  the  task  of  keeping  Erskine 's 
players  from  crossing  the  plate  again. 

And  Milford,  leaning  above  Hovey's  shoul- 
der, viewed  the  list  of  batting  candidates  and 
ruefully  concluded  that  she  would  not  have 
much  trouble  doing  it. 

The  stands  were  emptying  and  the  specta- 
tors were  ranging  themselves  along  the  base- 
lines. The  Robinson  band  had  broken  out 
afresh,  and  the  Robinson  cheerers  were  confi- 
dent. The  sun  was  low  in  the  west,  and  the 
shadows  of  the  stands  stretched  far  across  the 
diamond.  Kesner,  who  had  taken  Lester's 
place  in  the  batting  list,  stepped  to  the  plate 
and  faced  Dithman,  and  the  final  struggle 
was  on. 

Dithman  looked  as  calmly  confident  as  at 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT  227 

any  time  during  the  game,  and  yet,  after 
pitching  eight  innings  of  excellent  ball,  it 
scarcely  seemed  likely  that  that  he  could  still 
command  perfect  form.  Kesner  proved  a 
f  oeman  worthy  of  his  steel ;  the  most  seductive 
drops  and  shoots  failed  to  entice  him,  and  with 
three  balls  against  him  Dithman  was  forced 
to  put  the  ball  over  the  plate.  The  second 
time  he  did  it,  Kesner  found  it  and  went  to 
first  on  a  clean  hit  into  the  outfield  past  third, 
and  the  purple  banners  flaunted  exultantly. 
Milford's  face  took  on  an  expression  of  hope- 
fulness as  he  dashed  to  first  and  whispered 
his  instructions  in  Kesner 's  ear.  Then  he 
retired  to  the  coaches'  box  and  put  every  effort 
into  getting  the  runner  down  to  second.  But 
Fate  came  to  his  assistance  and  saved  him 
some  breath.  Dithman  lost  command  of  the 
dirty  brown  sphere  for  one  little  moment,  and 
it  went  wild,  striking  Greene  on  the  thigh. 
And  when  he  limped  to  first  Kesner  went  on 
to  second,  and  there  were  two  on  bases,  and 
Erskine  was  mad  with  joy.  Milford  and 
Billings  were  coaching  from  opposite  corners, 
Milford's  bellowing  being  plainly  heard  a 
quarter  of  a  mile  away ;  he  had  a  good,  hearty 


228  BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 

voice,  and  for  the  first  time  that  day  it  both- 
ered the  Robinson  pitcher.  For  Housel,  wait- 
ing for  a  chance  to  make  a  bunt,  was  kept  busy 
getting  out  of  the  way  of  the  balls,  and  after 
four  of  them  was  given  his  base. 

Erskine's  delight  was  now  of  the  sort  best 
expressed  by  turning  somersaults.  As  somer- 
saults were  out  of  the  question,  owing  to  the 
density  of  the  throng,  her  supporters  were 
forced  to  content  themselves  with  jumping  up 
and  down  and  shouting  the  last  bre.aths  from 
their  bodies.  Bases  full  and  none  out !  Three 
runs  would  tie  the  score!  Four  runs  would 
win!  And  they'd  get  them,  of  course;  there 
was  no  doubt  about  that — at  least,  not  until 
McLimmont  had  struck  out  and  had  turned 
back  to  the  bench  with  miserable  face.  Then 
it  was  Robinson's  turn  to  cheer.  Erskine 
looked  doubtful  for  a  moment,  then  began  her 
husky  shouting  again;  after  all,  there  was 
only  one  out.  But  Dithman,  rather  pale  of 
face,  had  himself  in  hand  once  more.  To  the 
knowing  ones,  Levett,  who  followed  McLim- 
mont, was  already  as  good  as  out ;  the  way  in 
which  he  stood,  the  manner  in  which  he  * l  went 
down  "  for  the  balls,  proved  him  nervous  and 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT  229 

overanxious.  With  two  strikes  and  three 
balls  called  on  him,  he  swung  at  a  wretched 
out-shoot.  A  low  groan  ran  along  the  bench. 
Levett  himself  didn't  groan ;  he  placed  his  bat 
carefully  on  the  ground,  kicked  it  ten  yards 
away,  and  said  "  Confound  the  luck!  "  very 
forcibly. 

"  You're  up,  Brewster,"  called  Hovey. 

"  Two  gone !  Last  man,  fellows ! "  shouted 
the  Robinson  catcher,  as  Ned  tapped  the  plate. 

"  Last  man!  "  echoed  the  second-baseman. 
"  He's  easy!" 

"  Make  him  pitch  'em,  Brewster!  "  called 
Milford.  The  rest  was  drowned  in  the  sud- 
den surge  of  cheers  from  the  Robinson  side. 
Ned  faced  the  pitcher  with  an  uncomfortable 
empty  feeling  inside  of  him.  He  meant  to  hit 
that  ball,  but  he  greatly  feared  he  wouldn't; 
he  scarcely  dared  think  what  a  hit  meant. 
For  a  moment  he  wished  himself  well  out  of  it 
— wished  that  he  was  back  on  the  bench  and 
that  another  had  his  place  and  his  chance  to 
win  or  lose  the  game.  Then  the  first  delivery 
sped  toward  him,  and  much  of  his  nervous- 
ness vanished. 

"  Ball!  "  droned  the  umpire. 

16 


230  BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 

Milford  and  Levett  were  coaching  again; 
it  was  hard  to  say  whose  voice  was  the  loudest. 
Down  at  first  Housel  was  dancing  back  and 
forth  on  his  toes,  and  back  of  him  Milford, 
kneeling  on  the  turf,  was  roaring :  "  Two  gone, 
Jack,  remember!  Eun  on  anything!  Look 
out  for  a  passed  ball!  Now  you're  off!  Hi, 
hi,  hi!  Lookout!  He  won't  throw!  Take  a 
lead — go  on!  Watch  his  arm;  go  down  with 
his  arm!  Now  you're  off!  Now,  now, 
now!  '• 

But  if  this  was  meant  to  rattle  the  pitcher 
it  failed  of  its  effect.  Dithman  swung  his 
arm  out,  danced  forward  on  his  left  foot,  and 
shot  the  ball  away. 

"  Strike!  "  said  the  umpire. 

Ned  wondered  why  he  had  let  that  ball  go 
by;  he  had  been  sure  that  it  was  going  to  cut 
the  plate,  and  yet  he  had  stood  by  undecided 
until  it  was  too  late.  Well !  He  gripped  his 
bat  a  little  tighter,  shifted  his  feet  a  few 
inches,  and  waited  again.  Dithman 's  ex- 
pression of  calm  unconcern  aroused  his  ire; 
just  let  him  get  one  whack  at  that  ball  and  he 
would  show  that  long-legged  pitcher  some- 
thing to  surprise  him!  A  palpable  in-shoot 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT  231 

followed,  and  Ned  staggered  out  of  its  way. 
Then  came  what  was  so  undoubtedly  a  ball 
that  Ned  merely  smiled  at  it.  Unfortunately 
at  the  last  instant  it  dropped  down  below  his 
shoulder,  and  he  waited  anxiously  for  the 
verdict. 

"  Strike  two!  "  called  the  umpire. 

Two  and  two!  Ned's  heart  sank.  He 
shot  a  glance  toward  first.  Milford  was 
staring  over  at  him  imploringly.  Ned  gave 
a  gasp  and  set  his  jaws  together  firmly.  The 
pitcher  had  the  ball  again,  and  was  signaling 
to  the  catcher.  Then  out  shot  his  arm,  the 
little  one-legged  hop  followed,  and  the  ball 
sped  toward  the  boy  at  the  plate.  And  his 
heart  gave  a  leap,  for  the  delivery  was  a 
straight  ball,  swift,  to  be  sure,  but  straight 
and  true  for  the  plate.  Ned  took  one  step 
forward,  and  ball  and  bat  met  with  a  sound 
like  a  pistol-shot,  and  a  pair  of  purple-stock- 
inged legs  were  flashing  toward  first. 

Up,  up  against  the  gray-blue  sky  went  the 
sphere,  and  then  it  seemed  to  hang  for  a  mo- 
ment there,  neither  rising  nor  falling.  And 
all  the  time  the  bases  were  emptying  them- 
selves. Kesner  was  in  ere  the  ball  was  well 


232  BREWSTER'S  DEBUT 

away,  Greene  was  close  behind  him,  and  now 
Housel,  slower  because  of  his  size,  was  swing- 
ing by  third ;  and  from  second  sped  a  smaller, 
lithe  figure  with  down-bent  head  and  legs 
fairly  flying.  Coaches  were  shouting  wild, 
useless  words,  and  none  but  themselves  heard 
them;  for  four  thousand  voices  were  shriek- 
ing frenziedly,  and  four  thousand  pairs  of 
eyes  were  either  watching  the  flight  of  the  far- 
off  ball,  or  were  fixed  anxiously  upon  the 
figure  of  left-fielder,  who,  away  up  near  the 
fence  and  the  row  of  trees,  was  running  des- 
perately back. 

Ned  reached  second,  and,  for  the  first  time 
since  he  had  started  around,  looked  for  the 
ball,  and,  as  he  did  so,  afar  off  across  the 
turf  a  figure  stooped  and  picked  something 
from  the  ground  and  threw  it  to  center-fielder, 
and  center-fielder  threw  it  to  third-baseman, 
and  meanwhile  Ned  trotted  over  the  plate 
into  the  arms  of  "  Big  Jim  "  Milford,  and 
Hovey  made  four  big  black  tallies  in  the  score- 
book.  Three  minutes  later  and  it  was  all 
over,  Billings  flying  out  to  center  field,  and  the 
final  score  stood  13-12.  Erskine  owned  the 
field,  and  Ned,  swaying  and  slipping  dizzily 


Ned  trotted  over  the  plate  into  the  arms  of  "Big  Jim"  Milford. 


BREWSTER'S  DEBUT  233 

about  on  the  shoulders  of  three  temporary 
lunatics,  looked  down  upon  a  surging  sea  of 
shouting,  distorted  faces,  and  tried  his  hard- 
est to  appear  unconcerned — and  was  secretly 
very,  very  happy.  He  had  his  E ;  best  of  all, 
he'  had  honestly  earned  it. 


"MITTENS" 

THERE  was  a  loud  and  imperative  knock 
at  the  study  door.  Stowell  growled  to  him- 
self at  the  interruption,  took  a  deep  breath 
and  bellowed,  "  Come  in! ' 

Then  his  eyes  went  back  to  the  book  on 
his  knees.  The  knock  was  unmistakably  that 
of  "  Chick  "  Reeves,  and  with  "  Chick  " 
Stowell  never  stood  on  ceremony.  But  when 
a  full  minute  had  passed  after  the  door  had 
closed,  without  any  of  "  Chick's  "  customary 
demonstrations,  such  as  the  overturning  of 
chairs,  the  wafting  of  pillows  across  the  room, 
or  the  emitting  of  blood-curdling  whoops, 
Stowell  became  alarmed  for  his  fellow  fresh- 
man's health,  and  so,  after  many  groans  and 
much  exertion,  he  sat  up  and  put  his  head 
around  the  corner  of  the  big  armchair.  What 
he  saw  surprised  him. 

The  visitor  was  a  stranger;  a  tall,  raw- 
boned  youth  of  about  seventeen,  with  a  homely, 

234 


"MITTENS"  235 

freckled  face  surmounted  by  a  good  deal  of 
tousled,  hemp-colored  hair.  His  eyes  were 
ridiculously  blue  and  his  cheeks  held  the  re- 
mains of  what  had  apparently  been  a  generous 
tan.  Altogether  the  face  was  attractive,  if 
not  handsome;  the  blue  eyes  looked  candid 
and  honest;  the  nose  was  straight  and  well- 
made;  the  mouth  suggested  good  nature  and 
strength  of  purpose.  But  it  is  not  to  be  sup- 
posed that  Jimmie  Stowell  reached  these 
numerous  conclusions  on  this  occasion.  On 
the  contrary,  the  impression  he  received  was 
of  an  awkward,  illy-clothed  boy  holding  a 
small  paper  parcel. 

"  Hello!"  said  Stowell. 

The  visitor  had  evidently  been  at  a  loss, 
for  the  back  of  the  armchair  had  hidden  his 
host  from  sight,  and  he  had  turned  irreso- 
lutely toward  the  door  again.  Now  he  faced 
Stowell,  observing  him  calmly. 

"  Hello!  "  he  answered.  He  crossed  the 
study  deliberately,  unwrapping  his  parcel  as 
he  went. 

"  Er — want  to  see  me?  "  asked  Stowell, 
puzzled. 

"  If  you  please."    There  was  no  evidence 


236  "MITTENS" 

of  diffidence  in  the  caller's  manner,  and  yet 
Stowell  found  it  hard  to  reconcile  his  appear- 
ance with  that  commanding  knock  at  the 
portal.  The  blue-eyed  youth  threw  back  the 
wrapping  from  his  bundle  and  held  it  forth. 
Stowell  took  it  wonderingly.  Five  pairs  of 
coarse  blue  woolen  mittens  met  his  gaze. 
He  frowned  and  viewed  the  caller  suspi- 
ciously. 

"  What  is  it,"  he  growled,  "  a  joke?  " 

"  Mittens,"  answered  the  other  imper- 
turbably,  "I'm  selling  them." 

"  Oh,   I   see."    He   handed   them   back. 
"  Well,   I   never   wear   them."    He   turned 
toward  his  chair.    "  Hang  these  peddlers! ' 
he  said  to  himself. 

"  They're  very  warm,"  suggested  the 
other. 

"  They  look  it,"  answered  Stowell,  grimly. 
"  But  I  wear  gloves." 

"  Oh,  excuse  me."  The  visitor  began  to 
wrap  them  carefully  up  again.  "  That's 
what  everybody  says.  I  wish  I'd  known  it 
before." 

"  But,  Great  Scott!  "  exclaimed  Stowell, 
"  you  didn't  really  think  that  any  one  wore 


"MITTENS"  237 

that  sort  of  thing  nowadays  ?    Why  they  look 
like — like  socks!  ': 

"  Yes,  I  suppose  they  do.  But  up  our  way 
we  generally  wear  them.  You  see,  they're 
warmer  than  gloves." 

"  Where  do  you  come  from?  " 

"  Michigan." 

"Michigan!  Well,  what  are  you  doing 
here,  then?" 

"  Studying."  He  looked  surprised  at  the 
question. 

"  Do  you  mean  that  you're  in  college?  " 
asked  Stowell,  in  amazement.  The  other  nod- 
ded. 

"  I'm  a  freshman."  Stowell's  perplexity 
increased.  "  I  thought,"  the  other  went  on, 
"  that  I  could  sell  some  of  these  around  col- 
lege. I  didn't  know  about  you  all  wear- 
ing gloves.  I  —  I  guess  I'll  have  to  give 
it  up."  There  was  disappointment  in  his 
voice. 

"  Are  you  doing  this  to  make  money?  ' 
Stowell  asked. 

"  Yes,  I'm  only  asking  sixty  cents.  Does 
that  seem  too  much?  ': 

Stowell  thought  it  was  a  good  deal  too 


238  "MITTENS" 

much,  but  lie  didn't  say  so,  and  the  other 
went  on. 

"  They're  regular  lumberman's  mittens, 
you  know,  made  of  best  woolen  yarn  and 
mighty  warm.  Of  course,  they  don't  cost  me 
that  much,  but  I  have  to  make  something  on 
them." 

"  Oh,  that's  reasonable  enough,"  said 
Stowell,  hurriedly,  "  and,  I  tell  you  what  you 
do.  I'm  dead  broke  this  morning,  but  you 
come  in  later  in  the  week  and  bring  me  a 
couple  of  pairs  and  I'll  have  the  money  for 
you." 

But  to  his  surprise  the  other  shook  his 
head  smilingly. 

"  You  just  want  to  help  me,"  he  said. 
"  You  wouldn't  wear  them,  I  guess.  But 
I'm  thankful  to  you."  He  placed  his  par- 
cel under  his  arm  and  moved  toward  the 
door. 

"Well,  but  hold  on,"  cried  Stowell. 
"  Don't  be  an  ass!  Look  here —  By  the 
way,  what's  your  name?  ': 

"  Shult." 

"  Well,  now  you  bring  those  along  and 
I'll  wear  them.  You  say  they're  warm; 


"MITTENS"  239 

that's  what  I  want,  something  warm.  And 
— look  here,  have  you  got  them  in  any  other 
color?  " 

"  No,  they're  always  blue,  you  know." 

"  Oh !  "  Stowell  felt  that  he  had  displayed 
unpardonable  ignorance.  "  Yes,  of  course. 
Well,  you  bring  a  couple  of  pairs,  say, 
Wednesday,  will  you  I ' 

"All  right,"  answered  Shult.  "Good 
morning." 

"  Good  morning,"  murmured  Stowell. 
The  door  closed  behind  his  visitor  and  he  went 
grinning  back  to  his  chair. 

Half  an  hour  later  when  "  Chick  "  Beeves 
did  come  in,  playfully  tipping  Stowell  and  the 
armchair  on  to  the  hearth-rug  by  way  of 
greeting,  Stowell  told  him  about  the  Michigan 
freshie  who  was  peddling  blue  woolen  mitts, 
and  told  it  so  well  that  "  Chick  "  sat  on  the 
floor  and  howled  with  delight. 

"  And  you  are  going  to  wear  them?  "  he 
gurgled. 

"  Why,  I'll  have  to,"  answered  Stowell, 
ruefully.  "  I  wanted  to  help  the  beggar,  and 
he  wouldn't  sell  them  to  me  unless  I  wore 
them." 


240  "MITTENS" 

"  Then  I'll  have  to  have  a  pair,  too." 

"  Oh,  you'll  need  a  couple  of  pairs," 
laughed  Stowell,  "  one  for  week-days  and  one 
for  Sundays." 

"  Of  course  I  will.  A  chap  needs  some- 
thing nice  for  the  theater.  Where  does  '  Mit- 
tens '  hang  out?  " 

"  Don't  know,  I'm  sure.  His  name's 
Shoot  or  Shult ;  you  can  find  him  in  the  cata- 
logue." 

"  I  will.  And,  say,  maybe  he  sells  blue 
socks,  too,  eh?  If  the  cooperative  hears  of 
it  they'll  have  the  law  on  him.  Did  you  ask 
him  if  he  had  a  license?  ': 

"  No."  Stowell  looked  down  at  Reeves 
thoughtfully. 

Then  he  said  slowly,  "  Now,  look  here, 
'  Mittens,7  as  you  call  him,  is  all  right.  So 
don't  go  to  having  fun  with  him,  hear?  " 

"  Not  me,"  grinned  "  Chick." 

"  Oh,  no,  you  naturally  wouldn't,"  growled 
Stowell.  "  But  if  you  do  I'll  break  your 
head  for  you." 

Stowell  had  quite  forgotten  his  strange 
visitor  of  the  day  before  when,  on  Tuesday 
morning,  he  met  him  on  the  steps  of  Uni- 


"MITTENS"  241 

versity.  Shult 's  clothes  looked  more  ill  fit- 
ting than  before,  and  it  cost  Stowell,  who  was 
accompanied  by  two  extremely  select  mem- 
bers of  his  class,  somewhat  of  an  effort  to  stop 
and  speak  to  him. 

"  Hello,  Shult,"  he  said,  "  how  are  you 
getting  along?  ': 

The  dealer  in  blue  mittens  flushed,  whether 
with  embarrassment  or  pleasure  Stowell 
couldn't  tell,  and  paused  on  his  way  down  the 
granite  steps. 

"  Not  very  well,"  he  answered.  "  I — I've 
sold  three  pairs  so  far." 

"  Hard  luck,"  answered  Stowell.  "  Don't 
forget  mine,  will  you?  ' 

"  Oh,  no;  I'm — I'll  bring  them  to-morrow. 
Do  you  want  them  long  or  short?  ': 

"  Er — well,  what  would  you  suggest?  ': 
asked  Stowell  gravely. 

"  The  long  ones  keep  your  wrists  warmer, 
of  course,"  said  Shult. 

"  Of  course,  I'll  take  that  kind,"  Stowell 
decided.  "  I've  a  friend,  by  the  way,  fellow 
named  Reeves,  who  said  he'd  take  a  couple  of 
pairs.  He  was  going  to  look  you  up.  Seen 
him  yet?" 


242  "MITTENS" 

"  No,  I  haven't.  I  could — I  could  call  on 
him  if  you  think  he'd  like  me  to?  v 

"  No,  it  wouldn't  pay;  you'd  never  find 
him  in.  I  '11  tell  him  to  look  you  up.  Where 's 
your  joint?  ' 

"Joint?" 

"  Yes,  your  room,  you  know." 

"  Oh,"  said  Shult.  He  gave  an  address 
that  Stowell  had  never  heard  of.  "  I'm 
usually  in  at  night,"  he  added. 

They  parted,  and  Stowell  joined  the  two 
grinning  freshmen  inside.  Their  names  were 
Clinton  and  Hazlett. 

"  Who's  your  handsome  friend?  "  asked 
one. 

"  Looks  like  a  genius,"  laughed  the  other. 
"  What's  his  line?" 

"  Mittens,"  answered  Stowell,  gravely. 

"  What?" 

"  Mittens." 

Then  the  green  door  swung  behind 
him. 

At  four  o'clock  the  next  afternoon  Clin- 
ton, Hazlett  and  Stowell  were  sitting  in  the 
latter 's  study.  The  fire  roared  in  the  grate 
and  a  northwest  wind  roared  outside  the  cur- 


"MITTENS"  243 

tained  windows.  There  came  a  resounding 
thump  on  the  door,  and,  without  waiting  a  re- 
sponse, "  Chick  "  Reeves  bounded  in.  Stand- 
ing just  inside,  he  closed  the  portal,  shook 
imaginary  snowflakes  from  his  cap,  shivered 
and  blew  on  his  hands. 

"  Br-r-r,"  he  muttered,  "  'tis  bitter  cold! 
The  river  is  caked  with  chokes  of  ice !  I  can 
not  cross  the  river  to-night!  Hark,  how  the 
wind  howls  round  the  turret!  ': 

Then,  with  sudden  abandonment  of  melo- 
drama, he  made  his  way  to  the  grate,  spread 
his  legs  apart,  and,  with  his  back  to  the  flames, 
grinned  broadly  upon  Stowell.  Gradually  his 
grin  grew  into  a  laugh. 

"  You're  an  awful  idiot,"  said  Stowell. 

"  I  know,  I  know,"  chuckled  Reeves. 
"  But  I've  got  the  biggest  joke  you  ever 
heard!  It's — it's  like  a  story.  Listen,  my 
children."  He  turned  to  Stowell.  "  You  re- 
member l  Mittens  "? ':  Stowell  nodded. 

"  I've  been  to  see  him,  and " 

"  Did  you  buy  some  mittens?  "  asked  Haz- 
lett,  who,  with  Clinton,  had  at  last  heard  of 
Stowell 's  protege. 

"  Yes,  but  listen.    He  lives  in  the  queerest 


244  "MITTENS" 

place  you  ever  heard  tell  of;  it's  down  on  one 
of  those  side  streets  toward  the  bridge ;  a  regu- 
lar tenement-house  with  brats  all  over  the 
front  steps  and  an  eloquent,  appealing  odor 
of  boiled  cabbage  and  onions  in  the  air.  Well, 
I  asked  a  woman  in  a  calico  wrapper  where 
Mr.  Shult  lived  and  she  directed  me  up  two 
flights  of  stairs ;  told  me  to  knock  on  the  '  sic- 
ond  door  to  me  roight.'  I  knocked,  a  voice 
called,  '  Come  in,  Mrs.  Brannigan,'  and  I 
went  in,  politely  explaining  that,  despite  cer- 
tain similarities  of  appearance,  I  was  not  Mrs. 
Brannigan.  Well  " — "  Chick's  '•  risibilities 
threatened  to  master  him  again;  he  choked 
and  went  on.  "  Well,  there  was  l  Mittens/ 
He  was  sitting  in  a  sort  of  kitchen  rocker  with 
a  Latin  book  on  his  knee  and — and —  Say, 
what  do  you  think  he  was  doing?  ' 

"  Grinding,"  said  Clinton. 

"  Sawing  wood,"  said  Hazlett. 

Stowell  shook  his  head. 

"  You'd  never  guess,"  howled  Reeves, 
"  never  in  a  thousand  years!  He  was — was 
— oh,  golly! — he  was  knitting!  ' 

"  Knitting!  '•  It  was  a  chorus  of  three 
incredulous  voices. 


"MITTENS"  245 

"  Yes,  knitting!  Knitting  blue- woolen 
mittens!  ' 

"  By  Jove!  "  muttered  Stowell. 

Clinton  and  Hazlett  burst  into  peals  of 
laughter. 

"  You — you  ought  to  have  seen  his  expres- 
sion when  he  saw  that  I  wasn't  Mrs.  Branni- 
gan,"  went  on  "  Chick,"  wiping  the  tears 
from  his  eyes.  "  He  stared  and  got  as  red 
as  a  beet ;  then  he  tried  to  get  the  thing  out  of 
sight.  Of  course,  I  apologized  for  intruding 
when  he  was  busy,  and  he  said  it  didn't  mat- 
ter. And  after  a  while  he  told  me  all  about 
it.  Seems  he  lives  up  in  the  backwoods — or 
whatever  you  call  'em — in  Michigan;  up 
among  the  lumber-camps,  you  know.  His 
father's  dead,  he  told  me,  and  his  mother 
keeps  a  sort  of  hotel  or  boarding-house  or 
something.  Of  course,"  added  "  Chick," 
with  a  note  of  apology  in  his  voice,  "  that  isn't 
funny.  But  it  seems  that  when  he  was  a  kid 
they  taught  him  to  knit,  and  made  him  do 
socks  and  mittens  and  things.  I've  forgotten 
a  lot  of  it,  but  he  wanted  to  go  to  college  and 
hadn't  any  money  to  speak  of,  and  so  they 
borrowed  a  little  somewhere — enough  for  tui- 

17 


246  "MITTENS" 

tion — and  now  lie's  trying  to  make  enough  on 
mittens  to  pay  his  board.  He  gets  his  room 
free  for  teaching  some  of  the  little  Branni- 
gans,  I  believe.  He's  spunky,  isn't  he?  But 
I  thought  I'd  keel  over  on  the  floor  when  I 
saw  him  sitting  there  for  all  the  world  like  an 
old  granny  in  the  Christmas  pictures,  just 
making  those  needles  fly.  Maybe  he  can't 
knit!" 

"  And  then  what?"  asked  Stowell, 
quietly. 

"  Chick's  "  grin  faded  out  a  little. 

"  Why — er — that's  all,  I  guess.  I  ordered 
two  pairs  of  the  funny  things  and  came 
away." 

Clinton  and  Hazlett  were  still  chuckling. 
"  Chick  "  looked  from  them  to  Stowell  doubt- 
fully and  began  to  wonder  what  ailed  the  lat- 
ter's  sense  of  humor. 

"  Knitting!  "  murmured  Clinton,  "  think 
of  it!" 

"  Yes,"  said  Stowell,  suddenly,  "  that's 
awfully  funny,  *  Chick.'  Funniest  thing  I've 
heard  for  a  long  while.  Do  you  know — " 
the  tone  made  his  friend  stare  in  surprise — 
"  I  think  you've  got  one  of  the  most  delicate 


"MITTENS"  247 

humorous  perceptions  I've  ever  met  up  with. 
You  have,  indeed.  Only  you,  '  Chick,'  could 
have  seen  all  the  exquisite  humor  in  the  situa- 
tion you've  described.  You  ought  to  be  proud 
of  yourself." 

Clinton  and  Hazlett  had  ceased  their 
chuckles  and  were  looking  over  at  their  host, 
their  faces  reflecting  the  surprise  and  uneasi- 
ness upon  "  Chick's." 

"  Here's  a  poor  duffer,"  went  on  Stowell, 
"  without  money;  father  dead;  mother  takes 
boarders  to  make  a  living ;  wants  to  go  to  col- 
lege and  learn  to  be  something  a  little  better 
than  a  backwoods  lumberman.  He  gets 
enough  money  together  somehow — I  think 
you  said  they  borrowed  it,  '  Chick  '?  '; 

That  youth  nodded  silently. 

"  Yes,  borrowed  enough  to  pay  the  tuition 
fee.  And  then  he's  thrown  on  his  own  re- 
sources to  make  enough  to  buy  himself  things 
to  eat.  I  suppose  even  these  backwoods  beg- 
gars have  to  eat  once  in  a  while,  Clint  ?  And 
having  learned  how  to  knit  blue-woolen  mit- 
tens— awfully  funny  looking  things,  they  are 
— he  just  goes  ahead  and  knits  them,  rather 
than  starve  to  death,  and  tries  to  sell  them  to 


248  "MITTENS" 

a  lot  of  superior  beings  like  you  and  me  here, 
not  knowing  in  his  backwoods  ignorance  that 
we  only  wear  Fownes's  or  Dent's,  and  that  we 
naturally  look  down  on  fellows  who— 

"  Oh,  dry  up,  old  man,"  growled  "  Chick." 
"  I  haven't  been  saying  anything  against  the 
duffer.  Of  course  he's  plucky  and  all  that. 
You  needn't  jump  on  a  fellow  so." 

"  Yes,  he  has  got  grit,  and  that's  a  fact," 
Clinton  allowed.  "  Only,  of  course,  knitting 
— well,  it's  a  bit  out  of  the  ordinary,  eh?  ' 

"  I  suppose  it  is,"  answered  Stowell. 
"  In  fact  '  Mittens  '  is  a  bit  out  of  the  ordi- 
nary himself.  He's " 

There  was  a  knock  at  the  door,  and,  in  re- 
sponse to  StowelPs  invitation,  Shult,  tall,  un- 
gainly, tow-haired,  freckle-faced,  entered  and 
paused  in  momentary  embarrassment  as  his 
blue  eyes  lighted  on  Reeves. 

1  *  Hello,  Shult;  come  in,"  called  Stowell. 
"  Have  you  brought  those  mittens'?  " 

Shult  had,  and  he  undid  them  carefully, 
and  crossing  the  study,  handed  them  to  their 
purchaser. 

Ah,"  continued  Stowell,  drawing  one  of 


. . 


"MITTENS"  249 

the  heavy  blue  things  on  to  his  hand,  "  long 
wrists,  I  see.  That's  fine.  Like  to  see  them, 
Bob?  "  Hazlett  said  that  he  would.  Every 
one  was  very  silent  and  grave.  Reeves,  after 
nodding  to  Shult,  had  busied  himself  with  a 
magazine.  Now  he  leaned  over  Hazlett 's 
shoulder  and  examined  the  mittens  with  al- 
most breathless  interest.  Clinton  craned  his 
head  forward  and  Stowell  handed  the  other 
pair  to  him  for  inspection.  Shult  stood 
silently  by,  his  embarrassment  gone. 

"  Look  as  though  they'd  be  very  warm," 
said  Hazlett,  in  the  voice  of  one  hazarding  an 
opinion  on  a  matter  of  national  importance. 
He  looked  inquiringly,  deferentially,  up  at 
Shult. 

"  Warm  as  toast,"  said  the  latter. 

"  Seem  well  made,  too,"  said  Clinton. 
Then  he  colored  and  glanced  apologetically 
at  Stowell.  Stowell  turned  his  head. 

"  Do  you  get  these  hereabouts,  Shult?  ' 
he  asked.     There  was  a  moment's  hesitation. 
Then, 

"  I — I  knit  them  myself,"  said  the  fresh- 
man, quietly. 


250  "MITTENS" 

"  Not  really!  "  exclaimed  Stowell,  in  much 
surprise.  "  Did  you  hear  that,  Clint?  He 
makes  them  himself.  It  must  be  quite  a 
knack,  eh?  " 

"  I  should  say  so!  "  Clinton  exclaimed, 
enthusiastically.  "  It — it's  an  accomplish- 
ment! ' 

1 1  By  Jove ! ' '  said  Hazlett.  They  all  stared 
admiringly  at  Shult. 

"  But,  I  say,  don't  stand  up,"  exclaim- 
ed Stowell.  " '  Chick,'  push  that  chair 


over.': 


Shult  sat  down.  He  was  very  grateful  to 
Reeves  for  not  telling  what  he  had  seen  dur- 
ing his  call,  and  grateful  to  the  others  for  not 
laughing  at  his  confession.  It  had  taken 
quite  a  deal  of  courage  to  make  that  confes- 
sion, for  he  had  anticipated  ridicule.  But 
instead  these  immaculately  dressed  fellows 
almost  appeared  to  envy  him  his  knowledge 
of  the  art  of  knitting  woolen  mittens.  He 
was  very  pleased. 

"  I  wonder — •"  began  Clinton.  He  glanced 
doubtfully  at  his  host.  "  I  think  I'd  like  to 
have  some  of  these  myself.  Have  you — er — 
any  more,  Mr.  Shult  I  " 


"MITTENS"  251 

"  Oh,  yes;  I  can  make  a  pair  an  evening, 
anyhow.  I — I  didn't  suppose  you  fellows 
would  care  for  them." 

"  Nonsense,"  said  Stowell.  "  They're 
just  what  a  chap  needs  around  here.  I — I 
used  to  wear  them  when  I  was  a  boy ;  after  all, 
there's  nothing  like  old-fashioned  mitts  to 
keep  your  hands  warm." 

"Nothing!"  said  Clinton. 

"  Nothing!  "  echoed  Hazlett. 

"  Nothing!  "  murmured  Reeves. 

"  If  you  could  let  me  have — ah — about  two 
pairs " 

Clinton's  request  was  firmly  interrupted 
by  his  host. 

"  Nonsense,  Clint,  you'll  need  at  least 
four.  I'm  going  to  have  a  couple  more  my- 
self." 

"  I  dare  say  you're  right.  If  you  could 
let  me  have  four  pairs,  Mr.  Shult,  I — ah — 
should  be  very  much  obliged." 

"  And  me  the  same,"  said  Hazlett. 

"  Yes,  certainly,"  answered  Shult,  flus- 
tered and  vastly  pleased.  "  You  shall  have 
them  right  off." 

"  And  let  me  see,  *  Chick,'  "  said  Stowell, 


252  "MITTENS" 

"  didn't  I  hear  you  say  you  wanted  a  couple 
more  pairs?  ': 

"  Yes,  oh,  yes,"  Reeves  replied  explo- 
sively. "  Er — two  pairs,  please." 

Shult  looked  surprised.  Fortune  was 
favoring  him  beyond  his  wildest  hopes.  He 
muttered  an  incoherent  answer.  Then  Sto- 
well  gravely  paid  him  for  the  two  pairs  of 
intensely  blue  and  shapeless  objects  in  his  lap 
and  Shult  made  the  exact  change  after  re- 
peated searches  in  three  different  pockets. 
At  the  door  he  turned. 

"  You  are  all  very  kind  to  me,"  he  said, 
gravely  and  earnestly.  "  I'm — I'm  thankful 
to  you." 

Stowell  murmured  politely. 

After  the  door  had  closed  there  followed 
several  moments  of  silence.  Then  a  smile 
crept  over  Stowell 's  face  and  was  reflected  on 
the  faces  of  the  others.  But  nobody  laughed. 

Possibly  the  reader  recalls  the  epidemic 
of  blue- woolen  mittens  that  raged  in  college 
that  winter.  One  saw  them  everywhere. 
The  fashion  started,  they  say,  among  a  certain 
coterie  of  correct  dressers  in  the  freshman 


"MITTENS"  253 

class  and  spread  until  it  enveloped  the  entire 
undergraduate  body.  None  could  explain  it, 
and  none  tried  to ;  blue- woolen  mitts  were  the 
proper  thing ;  that  was  sufficient.  At  first  the 
demand  could  not  be  supplied,  but  before 
the  Midyears  were  over  the  Cooperative  So- 
ciety secured  a  quantity,  and  the  furnishing 
stores  followed  its  example  as  soon  as  possible. 
But  blue-woolen  mitts  in  sufficient  quantities 
to  fill  the  orders  were  difficult  to  find,  and  long 
before  the  shops  had  secured  the  trade  in  that 
commodity,  one  Shult,  out  of  Michigan,  had 
reaped  a  very  respectable  harvest  and  found 
a  nickname  which,  despite  the  lapse  of  years 
and  the  accumulation  of  honors,  still  sticks — 
"  Mittens." 

a) 

THE  END 


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Paul  Jones. 

By  MOLLY  ELLIOT  SEAWELL.    With  8  full-page  Illustrations. 

Midshipman  Paulding. 

A  True  Story  of  the  War  of  1812.     By  MOLLY  ELLIOT  SEAWELL. 
With  6  full-page  Illustrations. 

Little  Jarvis. 

The  Story  of  the  Heroic  Midshipman  of  the  Frigate  Constellation. 
By  MOLLY  ELLIOT  SEAWELL.     With  6  full-page  Illustrations. 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,     NEW     YORK. 


ILLUSTRATED   JUVENILE   STORIES. 

Jacks  of  All  Trades. 

A  Story  for  Girls  and  Boys.  By  KATHARINE  N. 
BIRDSALL.  Illustrated  in  two  colors  by  Walter  Russell, 
with  many  text  cuts.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.20  net;  postage, 
12  cents  additional. 

Here  is  a  story  that  shows  conclusively  that "  the  child  is  father  of  the 
man."  Miss  Birdsall  has  written  a  book  that  should  be  read  by  every  boy 
and  girl  who  has  any  ambition  or  purpose  to  develop  the  best  that  is  in 
them.  The  author  has  taken  nobility  of  character  as  the  key-note  for  a 
most  wholesome  and  inspiriting  story,  the  plot  of  which  is  of  absorbing 
interest. 

Along  the  Florida  Reef. 

3y  C.  F.  HOLDER.     Illustrated.     i2mo.     Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  story  of  camping  and  fishing  adventures  in  company  with  a 
naturalist  in  Florida.  The  author  combines  entertainment  with  instruc- 
tion, and  his  book  is  filled  with  illustrations  which  will  be  prized  by 
every  young  reader  who  has  ever  visited  the  sea-shore,  or  cares  for 
information  regarding  fishes,  shells,  and  the  various  forms  of  marine  life. 

Christine's  Career. 

A  Story  for  Girls.  By  PAULINE  KING.  Illustrated. 
8vo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

This  book  tells  of  an  American  girl  who  has  been  raised  in  France, 
with  her  father,  who  is  an  artist.  She  comes  to  America  with  her  aunt, 
and  the  girls  and  customs  of  the  two  countries  afford  scope  for  agreeable 
elements  of  contrast. 

Stories  of  American  History. 

By  CHARLOTTE  M.  YONGE  (Aunt  Charlotte)  and  H.  H. 
WELD,  D.D.  Illustrated.  i2mo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

A  book  for  young  people  just  beyond  the  elementary  histories  of  the 
United  States,  and  able  to  enter  in  some  degree  into  the  real  spirit  of 
events. 

D.     APPLETON    AND    COMPANY,    NEW    YORK. 


ILLUSTRATED   JUVENILE   STORIES. 

Hermine's  Triumphs. 

A  Story  for  Girls  and  Boys.  By  Mme.  COJ.OMB.  With  100 
Illustrations.  8vo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

The  popularity  of  this  charming  story  of  French  home-life,  which  has 
passed  through  many  editions  in  Paris,  has  been  earned  by  the  sustained 
interest  of  the  narrative,  the  sympathetic  presentation  of  character,  and 
the  wholesomeness  of  the  lessons  which  are  suggested.  One  of  the 
most  delightful  books  for  girls  published  in  recent  years. 

Madeleine's  Rescue. 

A  Story  for  Girls  and  Boys.  By  JEANNE  SCHULTZ, 
Author  of  "The  Story  of  Colette,"  "Straight  On,"  etc. 
With  Illustrations  by  Tofani.  8vo.  Cloth,  $1.00. 

The  charmingly  sympathetic  quality  and  refined  humor  of  the  author 
of  "Colette"  has  never  been  more  happily  illustrated  than  in  this 
picturesque  story  of  a  girl  and  her  boy  friends — a  story  which  grown 
people  as  well  as  children  will  read  with  keen  delight. 

King  Tom  and  the  Runaways. 

By  Louis  PENDLETON,  Author  of  "  In  the  Wire  Grass." 
Illustrated,  izmo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

A  tale  of  the  strange  experiences  of  two  boys  in  the  forests  and 
swamps  of  Georgia,  in  which  are  described  some  remarkable  adventures 
in  a  little-known  region. 

Little  Peter. 

A  Christmas  Morality  for  Children  of  any  Age.  By 
LUCAS  MALET,  Author  of  "  Colonel  Enderby's  Wife,"  etc. 
With  numerous  Illustrations  by  Paul  Hardy.  i2mo.  Cloth, 
$1.25. 

The  story  of  a  little  boy  and  his  cat,  his  friend,  a  misshapen  charcoal 
burner,  and  life  in  the  pine  forest,  with  the  myths  and  legends,  the 
superstitions  and  quaint  fancies  of  an  earlier  day.  A  book  that  will 
delight  the  little  folk  of  a  winter's  evening. 

We  All. 

A  Story  of  Outdoor  Life  and  Adventure  in  Arkansas. 
By  OCTAVE  THANET.  With  12  full-page  Illustrations  by 
E.  J.  Austin  and  others.  8vo.  Cloth,  $1.50. 

D.    APPLETON     AND     COMPANY,    NEW    YORK. 


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